The Silver Peacock and the Skulking Cutpurse
by TreeHugger
Summary: Written with Dragon-of-the-north. OCS! Two very different elves are caught up in an unlikely adventure filled with mischief, mayhem, and three of the worst goblins to walk the face of Arda. Set directly following the Battle of Five Armies in The Hobbit.
1. Default Chapter

This tale is OC based. If you have read any of TreeHugger's tales you will probably recognize the Silver Peacock. If you have read Dragon_of_the_north's "A Night at Tumhalad" then you will know the identity of the Skulking Cutpurse as well. If you haven't read her wonderful tale then please do!   
  
The Tale of the Silver Peacock and the Skulking Cutpurse  
  
By Dragon_of_the_north and TreeHugger  
  
Prologue  
  
Trembling torchlight spilled through the small window of the cell that had once held Thorin Oakenshield during the dwarf's stay in the dungeons of Thranduil Oropherion King of the Woodland Realm as the dwarves returned to Erebor to reclaim what was theirs from the might of Smaug the Dragon. These dungeons beneath Thranduil's Hall were seldom occupied, and when the dwarves had strayed from the path through Mirkwood, stirred the spiders to greater activity, and generally been a nuisance, they had become the 'guests' of the Wood Elves. The cells had been put to good use then.  
  
At the present moment only one cell had an inhabitant, but it wasn't a dwarf. It was an elf. On rare occasions, one of Thranduil's subjects would foolishly do something to incur their good and wise king's wrath and would find themselves contemplating their wrong deeds in a stone room, a real punishment for such lovers of trees and stars, and grass beneath bare feet, none of which were anywhere to be seen in these lower regions of the Wood Elf King's great Hall.  
  
But stars shone in this cell, and trees grew. Elves lived here; as did spiders, goblins, dwarves, men, eagles, wargs, and even a wizard in grey robes. For the occupant of this particular cell, now known as "The Many Strange Happenings" cell, was busily painting the walls with deft 'creative' strokes. He was a fine artist and could draw anything in very lifelike detail when he so chose. On the occasion when he occupied one of the cells, which had indeed happened before, he usually drew everything that had happened to put him in this rather undesirable location. The paintings were done realistically to a point, but a small somewhat wicked part of him decided that the main players were better depicted in caricature . . . or nearly all of them. They are "brutally honest", he would tell his detractors, or one in particular who was not always amused by these renderings. "The caricature accentuates their natural . . . proclivities," he would say with a smirk and a pointed glance at the king who would sometimes smile affectionately - if his august person were absent from the picture - or glare imperiously and, from time to time, let forth one of his signature shrieks if he was the main focus of the portrait.  
  
"I am merely capturing the true you, hir nin," the artist would say, crossing his arms over his chest, daring Thranduil to say differently. If the artist were in a particularly daring mood, he would merely smirk and say, "You can't handle the truth, can you, Oropherion?"  
  
The king would glower and the artist would sigh dramatically knowing his sentence would be extended, and complete silence would reign, for the king would order that no one, under pain of severe and very painful torture, was to utter even one word in the prisoner's presence. It was at this time that the king would usually point out, quite correctly, that one figure in these 'honest' portrayals always managed to look noble, brave, or very put upon. The figure in question had a lovely spill of silver hair and a bow . . . oddly enough he resembled the artist. To which the artist would again repeat, "My art is brutally honest." Then with the same insufferable smirk, he would sit back upon the cell bench and watch as the king slammed shut the door once more with muttered imprecations and threats before sweeping imperiously away.  
  
In truth, both the king and the artist knew that Mirkwood's grand ruler found these situations somewhat amusing or they would not have been allowed. Both king and artist played their respective roles to the hilt for the enjoyment of all.  
  
The portraits on the cell walls had begun when Galion the butler, feeling rather sorry for his confined friend on the first instance of imprisonment many years before, had taken him - in silence- a box of paints and brushes from the artist's own room. Galion knew instantly that this was probably a mistake when after the first initial glance of gratitude and happiness, for the prisoner was chafing at the inactivity, the criminal's silver eyes had gleamed and his lips parted in a particularly wolfish grin, and the "Great Work" was begun.  
  
The first cell to come under the gentle "honest" brush had come to be known as "A Study in Blueness" after a rather unusual trip to Imladris. Now ever successive imprisonment had found more cell walls covered in creativity, and this cell that the prisoner now occupied was busily being covered in scenes from recent life, dating from just before the Battle of Five Armies to the events that had brought him to this state of current time behind bars.  
  
As per usual, no one was to speak with the prisoner as he had done something "questionable" after the battle not to mention a few incidences before the dwarves escaped, and the king felt some time in the dungeon was in order, a nice one with blank walls, of course. So it was with some disgruntled confusion that Ecthelhador lead a tall figure clad in a long blue cloak revealing little of its wearer's other clothing and, since the hood was pulled up, even less of his dark hair meticulously braided in Noldor fashion, towards the cell and kept throwing furtive glances at this stranger only to receive somewhat cheeky grins and winks.  
  
Had Ecthelhador been more familiar with the subtlety of Noldor diplomacy - but how and where should an honest Silvan of Mirkwood have learnt much about that kind of devilry? - he would have been aware that those seemingly lighthearted smiles where the exact equivalent of the inscrutable expression a Silvan would put on if he wished to mask his thoughts and feelings, but even more effective, as the fact that something - and if it was a only certain amount of mischief - was displayed at all gave the illusion that nothing was hidden.  
  
Almost the same was true of the moderately curious glances the visitor cast at the thick walls and the flaring torches; his interest appeared to be the limited one of someone exploring a place of equally limited importance for the first time. A very keen observer might have noticed, though, that the slightest hint of unease entered the elf's single eye now and then, but even this was not overly remarkable, for seeing a prison closely was certainly not agreeable to anybody.  
  
The stranger could have told Ecthelhador that he had already seen rather too many prisons, and that he had not been there as a harmless visitor in most cases; for obvious reasons, he refrained from doing so; such a remark, let alone that kind of experience, would have been most inappropriate for the very respectable, if cheerful, Noldo walking down the hall with the gruff Silvan guard.  
  
What he noticed in passing and interpreted at once with a mind sadly well- schooled in such matters did not please the visitor at all, but helped to enhance the worry he already felt for a certain prisoner - for if he had not been somewhat worried in the first place, and also battling slight feelings of guilt as he feared he was not entirely innocent of what had befallen the aforementioned prisoner, he would never have been foolhardy enough to venture right into King Thranduil's dungeons.  
  
He had admittedly been amused when he had first learnt about what had happened to a certain silver-haired elf, and the lovely irony of visiting him in prison when he had been cast into the dungeon for a crime was part of what had incited the stranger to embark on this expedition.  
  
But malignant delight did have its limits, especially as it was apparent that nights were likely to be cold and uncomfortable down here. At this time of the year, that was not a good thing, so, not even taking into account that the overall terms of imprisonment seemed to contain some less than kind elements, the prisoner deserved some pity. The visitor could imagine being in his place only too well.  
  
If things proved to be very bad, he would not only give the prisoner the bottle he was carrying well hidden under his cloak but also that cloak itself when he left, if he was able to leave again at all. The prospect was highly unpleasant, and he forced himself to smile to chase it from his mind.  
  
~ Why worry, even if I have to stay?~ he thought, making an effort to focus on the ironic side of the whole matter. ~ We have found ourselves in a dungeon together before, and I cannot claim that incident was not amusing.~  
  
His smile instantly widened when he felt Ecthelhador's suspicious eyes rest on him, and, realizing that they had arrived in front of the right cell - well, was it the right one, or only a random one because this annoying Silvan had maybe become a bit too suspicious? - he cocked his head a little and waited.  
  
The tall elven guard pulled a set of jangling silver keys from his belt and inserted one of them into the cell's massive engraved lock. The mechanism scrapped as he turned the key, then he yanked open the thick oak plank door.  
  
As it was evening, with the first stars beginning to glimmer in the darkening violet hued skies, the king was dining with his family and though the stout-hearted guard had wondered if perhaps he should be checking about this visit with the king first, he decided that it might be best to leave the king to his repast with no interruptions. Indeed the stranger had assured him that alerting the king wasn't necessary, as the king already knew of it, for the good and wise Thranduil was aware of everything that transpired in his wondrous realm, was he not? As if to prove this, the rather flamboyant stranger also knew all the stipulations that surrounded visiting this particular prisoner, and he assured Ecthelhador that they had been waived for this visit as he and the prisoner were old friends who hadn't seen one another in ever such a long time and the good and wise king knew this.  
  
~Highly suspicious! ~ Ecthelhador thought, eyeing the visitor once more before calling gruffly into the cell. He was feeling rather put out. Shouldn't he have been informed of all this BEFORE the visitor had arrived?!  
  
"You have a visitor."  
  
The captive elf had turned with a start when the fist rasping of the lock was heard, his paint splattered countenance filled with surprise at this unexpected visit. It was not time for his meal, as they had brought that an hour ago. Surely Thranduil was not going to give in this soon! He straightened, the brush clamped in his teeth, the bristles filled with black paint, momentarily forgotten; the one held in his hand slowly dripping silver paint onto the stone floor.  
  
It wasn't the king of Mirkwood that entered, but a tall elf in a dark blue cloak that swept the floor. Ecthelhador's eyes narrowed once more, wondering again whom this mysterious visitor was, for it appeared the prisoner didn't know either. But before the guard could form a proper question the strange elf turned to him with a disarming smile to thank him for his kind service in escorting him here.  
  
Ecthelhador frowned at this, for he hadn't escorted him anywhere but down the long hall to the cell. The Silvan frowned. Who, he wondered, had escorted him into the palace into the first place?  
  
After the guard had stared for a second more from the prisoner to the visitor he turned, muttering to himself while closing and locking the door.  
  
The mysterious elf turned, the cloak swirling dramatically about his ankles and grinned as he folded his arms over his chest and leaned back to survey the prisoner.  
  
"Good evening, Mordil," he began in a conversational tone, raising one eyebrow as his eye swept over the paint splattered clothing the other wore.  
  
Tanglinna's mouth fell open in shock of recognition, the brush dropping from his lips to splat messily upon the floor.  
  
"So this is where utter respectability gets you, hm?" the visitor continued, turning one gleaming eye over the confines of the cell, then back toward the silver-haired elf. "There were rumors in Laketown - and I just happened to be there - that King Thranduil had arrested his Master Archer for disrespectful behaviour and lese-majeste and conspiring against His Majesty with a shadowy group of conspirators known as 'The Tricksy Trio', letting a dangerous prisoner escape, and countless other crimes . . . . Impressive."  
  
The Master Archer stared incredulously at the one-eyed elf.  
  
"Alagaith?!" he gasped, staring fixedly at his grinning companion.  
  
"So, just how deep in trouble are you, Mordil?" Alagaith continued, seeming unaware of how his unexpected appearance had affected "Mordil". "Will I have to break you out of jail to repay old debts, or were they exaggerating and you will be released so soon that a few bottles of orcish brandy are all you need to survive this?" He grinned once more at the flummoxed look on Tanglinna's face. Chuckling slightly, he returned to surveying the freshly painted scenes on the walls.  
  
One showed the Wild Berry War that had taken place at the last autumn feast before the dwarves had left Mirkwood under somewhat mysterious circumstances. This war had not been fought with conventional weapons, but with berries and much laughter. Another picture showed a rather unflattering portrait of an elf with long golden hair, blue eyes bulging in their sockets, the handsome face marred by the wild snarl on his lips. Cavorting beside him was a large black spider in courtly robes. Another picture showed a black ribbon of water and a silver circlet flying in suspended flight through the air above it. Yet another showed a dark haired elf dressed in very elegant clothing seated on the ground with the noble looking silver haired elf, the same one throwing the circlet into the black waters of Morn Nen, a bottle of wine or brandy on the ground between them. They both looked very happy, one might almost say too happy.  
  
"My goodness that is some interesting artwork on the wall over there! Are you providing them with evidence against you on purpose?"  
  
Tanglinna gazed over at his paintings and frowned, slightly perplexed. It did look as though he were condemning himself. That had not been his original intent.  
  
"What are you doing here, Alagaith?" the artist asked, turning to look at the other elf before bending to pick up the fallen brush. "HOW are you here? Thranduil isn't allowing me any visitors, and he certainly wouldn't . . . ." He gazed toward the doorway wondering where Ecthelhador was, then dropped his voice to a mere whisper, leaning forward slightly. "He would never let you, of all people, into Mirkwood let alone his Hall!" he hissed, staring at the other elf in amazement.  
  
Alagaith gave him a suspiciously innocent smile. "But why shouldn't he  
  
allow me to go here, Mordil? He wanted to see me right here all the  
  
time, or so I believe to remember..."  
  
TBC  
  
We hope you have enjoyed the first installment of "The Tale of the Silver Peacock and the Skulking Cutpurse". Thank you for reading.  
  
Authors' Note  
  
Mordil means "Silver Peacock". Alagaith found this to be a rather fitting name for Thranduil's Master Archer as you will see in upcoming chapters. 


	2. Chapter 1 In Which the Two Elves Meet

Reviewer Responses  
  
"I told you this would work, Alagaith. You should have trusted me. They love me."  
  
Alagaith grins wryly and chuckles, "You told me so, yes - but I was not aware that you had so many *female* admirers."  
  
Tanglinna raises one brow and gazes at his companion with mild disdain.  
  
"I beg your pardon? What exactly are you implying?"  
  
A slow smile spreads over Alagaith's features, an innocent smile one would almost say, if not for the mischievous glint in his one eye.  
  
"Do you really want me to answer that question in front of all these charming ladies?" he chortles.  
  
The silver-haired archer glares over at him, but then a smirk crosses his lips.  
  
"I should point out that kingmaker is not a female. Or did you forget that?"  
  
"And," Alagaith rejoined with a grin, "he explicitly admires the ART, not the artist . . . . Please try to remain honest."  
  
"I am always honest, unlike some people that I have encountered, Linlote," Tanglinna said, looking pointedly at the other elf, who merely smiled in an unnerving Noldor fashion and said smoothly, "'Always', Mordil, indeed . . . . Why should the evil witch queen claim that it is 'very good' that you are in prison then? For surely a dungeon is not a place for perfectly honest people." The Noldor elf winked suddenly and continued before the Silvan could reply. "And," he glanced back at the reviews, " Hel is 'not very surprised' that you were imprisoned for 'your actions'? Truly, that speaks highly of the reputation you have among your. . . .admirers."  
  
"You are reading them wrong," Tanglinna growls bending over the reviews. "Nilmandra is ready to 'have words' with Thranduil about it. AND amlugwen says that Thranduil should charge people to look at my paintings. AND daw the minstrel says that I am a 'hoot'. So there!" He straightens, folding his arms over his chest and waiting expectantly for the retort, which is not long in coming.  
  
Alagaith grinned once more, his eye sparkling with amusement.  
  
"You do realize that you are answering the question Kal the Magnificent asked? You do behave like a peacock! Quite inexplicable that Hel should ask, 'why peacock?'! Why peacock indeed!" He slowly shakes his head in exasperation.  
  
"I am NOT a peacock! And I do not know why you insist on calling me Mordil - Silver Peacock indeed -whereas your own nickname Linlote fits you perfectly. You ARE a skulking cutpurse, or so they are about to find out. I look like a . . . a. . . a morose warrior, tired of. . . of the necessity of war - certainly not a peacock! legolasluva is about to know only too well who you are. Yes, legolasluva, I am old, well over 7,000 years. Linlote here is probably even older than that . . . not that he behaves like he is older and wiser." Tanglinna watches, hoping to have wiped that imperturbable grin from Alagaith's face, but he soon realizes that it will take more than that to deter this Noldor.  
  
"Too kind of you, Mordil. . . , but I shall treat this lack of respect for those older than you with the wisdom and lenience of my venerable age. . . See? legolasluva is also of the opinion that I sound 'really cool'." It was now Alagaith's turn to smirk. "I just wonder why Miss Aranel did not expect to see me 'popping up again'."  
  
"Perhaps she had enough of you the first time around," the Silvan smirks back. Then he chuckled. "Be warned, Dear Readers, Alagaith shows up at the oddest of times and often without warning. Though, and I will say this - because if I don't, he will, insufferable thing that he is - he does show up on occasions when he is needed." Tanglinna turns to grin at Alagaith. "See? I can be nice to my elders when I must."  
  
"I just assume this means you know well enough that you might need my selfless help now and then - you do tend to get into a lot of trouble," Alagaith said with a slight grin. "Though not as much trouble as some of our readers seem to believe. . . . Nilmandra is of the opinion that we must have met in the mines." He turns to look at Tanglinna, surveying him critically. "Have you ever been there? No - for all your being a 'morose warrior tired of the necessity of war', you still do not look as if you had gone through that torment. Very telling that Lutris cannot even imagine you as 'the confined elf' in Thranduil's dungeon. I cannot imagine you as a humble slave in the mines."  
  
"No, I was never "a humble slave in the mines". Not unless there is something that Tree didn't tell me. I am merely a humble servant of the good and wise King Thranduil Oropherion of Mirkwood. That is trial enough," Tanglinna chuckles. "ember can't wait to see how we meet. A very odd meeting it was, I can tell you. As to why Thranduil would like dear Linlote to be imprisoned, well, Thranduil is overly fond of his dungeons at times. . . just as the dwarves." Tanglinna grins slightly. "But no, dear Dis Thrainsdotter, Thranduil doesn't think I had anything to do with the escape of those same dwarves. . . at least I don't think he does." The Master Archer frowns, now suddenly wondering if Thranduil were thinking just that. "I hope he doesn't," he murmurs, then shakes his head. "Ah, yes. My 'Great Work'! Jasta darling, I hope it does not take me a lifetime and beyond to complete, like poor Niggle. Of course, as slowly as Tree and Dragon write, that is entirely possible. That is when Tree isn't dead or in China, eh legolasluva?" He winks at the screen. "The Goblins are REAL Goblins, not the Tricksy Trio, amlugwen. Real goblins. . . ." The tall elf grimaces slightly at this remark, noting that Alagaith is frowning now as well. "Um, yes. Well, here is chapter the first of our tale." He grins at Alagaith suddenly. "It won't all be angsty, will it, Linlote?"  
  
"No, Mordil. It will be utter. . . chaos soon," the Noldor chuckles, raising one brow. "Now on to the tale!"  
  
Chapter 1 - In Which The Two Elves Meet  
  
POV of Tanglinna  
  
The sunset that night was red, as red as the blood-washed ground at my feet, as the blade of my sword or the tips of my spent arrows. Ragged clouds, black as fleeing crows, had raced across the crimson expanse of the sky. Red and black - the color of the enemies' fluttering banners that lay trampled and rent on the rocky flanks of the mountain, a tattered sign of defeat. Our own green banners of the Forest flew jauntily against the morning's sky, a sky as blue as the banner of the Men of Esgaroth. Dwarven banners of Dain of Moria and Thorin Oakenshield of Erebor also flapped colorfully in the cold air the day after what would be called in later times the Battle of Five Armies. These banners and pennants were shining symbols of triumph in a sky that was perfect and yet unfeeling for what lies spread beneath it in pitiful array. What does it care for the strivings of the beings that inhabit Arda? The Valar cared little more than the sky does, or so it seems at times.  
  
The air was cold and invigorating, yet choked with the vapors of war, strong with the scent of death and ash; the stench of lives lost and of destruction. Perhaps if I had held my breath, kept my eyes fixed on the vastness of blue above my head, above the Dwarves' mountain, if I held my breath refusing to exhale and draw another, I could have pretended that it is a lovely day, a normal day, one not filled with bruising anxiety and crushing sorrow . . . or even the senseless beating of anger.  
  
But the breath was released, another drawn - painful, as my lungs filled the tainted air of devastating conflict.  
  
All around me there were the signs of life, people moving in and out of my sight; some are familiar and loved, some are strangers to me, yet we fought together against the menace from the north and in the end were triumphant over it. But at what price? Friends, allies, foes . . . lives poured on the ground like water. The image was familiar, calling up memories of another battlefield at the end of the last Age of this world: Elves, Dwarves, Men, and our foes. Death does not discriminate. Yet that day, the day after the Battle of Five Armies, surrounded by smoke and sorrow, I could rejoice in saying that my king did not fall, not this time. I saw him then in the distance, a bright shining presence in his armor, his golden hair a beacon in the gloom. ~His father would have be proud of him, I thought, even as I continue to be proud of him.  
  
No, that day others mourned the loss of their king, for Thorin Oakenshield, who had grasped what was his at last, fell even as victory flew in on the wings of swift eagles. We all mourned, for though we started this conflict as enemies, we ended it as allies, and thus we lamented the passing of those who fell by our sides, whether Elf, Dwarf, or Man . . . even as it was at Dagorlad.  
  
I allowed myself to gaze over this section of the battlefield, for we had ranged wide across those southern spurs of Erebor. We had set about the grim but necessary task of gathering our dead. The goblins, wargs, and wolves we burned, giving them up to the blue sky. Our dead we took home with us, home to Greenwood, though most now call it Mirkwood, forgetting it was once different before the Shadow returned in the south. But Greenwood is what it will always be to me and to those of us that traveled to this great forest with Oropher so long ago to make a new home, a new beginning. Our fallen are always honored, always mourned, always remembered.  
  
I recall hearing the sound of laughter, even amidst the sound of laments sung in the cold air of day. I had turned to see a group of our young warriors, vibrant, alive and gratefully so. They laughed as they told one another stories of the brave deeds they accomplished during the fighting, forgetting their fear for a time, forgetting their sorrow. Their laughter seemed out of place in that land of death, but they are young and resilient; this is how they survive what had happened. All of life lies before them, and though they had been christened as warriors in that conflict, christened in the blood of fallen enemies and friends alike and realize that life can be cut short even for elves, they are still children, innocent, not yet understanding that tomorrow when the fight comes to us again, it may be they that fall. This is their innocence. Those of us who have survived other battles know that the conflict is never over. If ever my king looks south, he is troubled; this is why Thranduil is ever mindful, ever vigilant; why his eyes fill with the sorrow of ages even as he gazes at his own children in times such as these. I believe he envies the young ones. I know I do. Innocence lost is never regained. Not in this life. Let them be children for as long as they can.  
  
My steps took me slowly down the rocky slope still slippery with blood. No, innocence does not return. The young ones turned as I neared them, so certain that I would put a stop to their boasts and brags, as their voices faltered. But I allowed them this moment. I wished I could lose myself for a time in boasts and laughter, could find a way to forget the horror even for a short time. My life has never allowed me this and I don't begrudge them their laughter. I smiled at them, seeing their hesitance, then their relief showed in their answering smiles. As I moved past them, their youthful, earnest voices filled the air once more.  
  
The morning sun sparkled on the river in the distance to the south, running into Greenwood. I allowed myself the selfish thought that it would be good to go home, to stand beneath those darkling trees with only the crisp cold air smelling of winter's approach or the rich earth that was preparing for slumber beneath the fallen leaves. But where I stood, the air was filled with other scents, other smells. There were more bodies, felled during the first rush against the goblins. I slowed my breathing, knowing that the bodies would be those of my friends, people I would recognize, people I had fought beside; people I knew and cared for.  
  
It doesn't matter how often you encounter death, the pain is always fresh and sharp. Death is an inevitability of war, yet it tears the soul no matter how prepared for it you believe you are. You don't want to see their faces, as still and pale as marble . . . and as cold. But a grim sort of fascination grips you, drawing your eyes to the lifeless forms on the ground; they become faces you do know with eyes you have looked into, a mouth that has smiled at you. They are friends and family, those nearest to your heart. The pain is expected, but always a surprise in its intensity.  
  
I knelt beside a young elf, one of his arms flung wide, his hair obscuring his features. Though I dreaded the moment, I gently eased the dark hair back and the suddenly he was no longer merely a slain elven warrior; he had a name: Calenmidh. His leaf green eyes were vacant, staring at the perfect sky above. I gently closed the lids, remembering this quiet young Silvan who had so proudly received his warriors' weapons not long before this encounter, his mother's eyes shining with tears of joy and pride. Tatharhoss' eyes would fill with tears once more, but it would not be the same, and I feared for her. This is a grief I know too well, one that I shared with her: the loss of a child. My heart went out to Calenmidh's mother, knowing her heart would die within her breast at the news we would bear to her on our return. You never recover from such a grievous wound. You may continue to live, but the grief is always there, beating like a black bird in your heart with every breath.  
  
I whispered a quiet prayer, sang a few soft words in parting. It never gets any easier.  
  
As I rose from my knees, my eyes wandering over the rocky terrain between the mountain and the forest, I spied a small mouse, intent on its journey, a scrap of dark cloth between its teeth. Winter was coming and well the little animal knew it; this piece of a warrior's cloak or tunic would make a nest warm and snug against the winter's chill and bitter winds. The mouse didn't care for the battle that had been fought here, he was probably not even aware that such a great clash had taken place over his home, only that there had been a great deal of frightening noise. He didn't care for Dwarf treasure or the might of Bolg the goblin leader and the fear he had inspired for so long. This tiny mouse was merely worried about his family surviving the winter. Such simplicity. I envied him that. Simplicity . . . that was what Oropher though we might obtain in Greenwood among the welcoming Silvans. A life not complicated by all that we sought to leave behind in Doriath as it lay in ruin; a simple life, carefree and joyous. Some things are unattainable it seems.  
  
He disappeared down a hole that I would never have seen. Smiling, I had knelt, taking the last of my morning's repast and laying it before the mouse's home. I could do nothing to ease the pain that Tatharhoss will feel, but I could help a mouse survive a little longer this winter. It is a small kindness, more of the sort of thing that Brethil Bronaduion would do, certainly not 'Old Sourpuss'.  
  
I had glanced back then to where the young warriors I had passed earlier were still standing. I was glad that they could take comfort in one another's company, I was glad they had survived to brag and boast and bolster one another with laugher. I only wish that Calenmidh was among them.  
  
I have tried to prepare them to defend themselves and others; I have tried to prepare them for battle, but how can one be prepared for this? Suddenly I was acutely aware of the bow at my back. My bow . . . . That slender yet supple curve of wood that is so beautiful and so deadly. There are times that I hate it and what it represents, and then I felt the revulsion rise in me. I teach the children to use this implement of war, how to kill efficiently with it and quickly, else they be killed. Yes, at times I hate my bow . . . .  
  
No, I reminded myself sharply. I was indeed thankful for the ones that did survive, using the skill I had taught them, the skills that others had spent years teaching them, and I hoped that perhaps war would not come to plague us again for some time. I gazed skyward, pleading for a moment's peace, begging that swords and war bows could be put away for a time, that my bow need not have any function but to put food in our mouths. I don't know if I was heeded or not.  
  
With these thoughts in mind, I headed down the slope toward the more level ground, seeing death all about me, but holding thoughts of those who yet lived. It is how one stays sane in times like these.  
  
Vultures had begun to gather in the sky, circling the battlefield, awaiting their moment of feasting. I felt anger swell within me, though I knew that this is what they had been created for, and thus it always was.  
  
~It is their way, ~ I told myself, forcing my eyes from their slow dance on the air currents. ~It is how they survive. ~  
  
But then a flash of richest green embroidered with red and gold caught my eye. There was only one warrior that wore garments embroidered with the flashing crimson and gold: Lalven, one of my oldest friends. Hope stirred in my breast, for surely I had seen movement and that meant that he yet lived! I moved forward eagerly, joy stirring in my heart. This is the moment we all wish for, life among the dead; that faint stirring of hope as one thought gone was still here and not standing before Mandos to be judged.  
  
It was in that moment that I saw him . . . .  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
POV of Alagaith  
  
Fortune is fickle, and it seems that the Valar or other powers yet nameless ruling our fate take a wicked delight in hiding ill luck beneath a promising surface. For promising and friendly the early morning after the great battle that was to be known as the Battle of Five Armies later appeared, that is - promising and friendly to the eye of a robber of the dead.  
  
The fight had raged for a long time and had been terrible; we had even been forced to move our camp farther away from the battlefield last night because we had felt that we were too close and might be in danger - we who had seen so many battles in the course of the years and had never failed to find a safe hiding place where we could watch and wait.  
  
'We' - we were a ragged handful of outlaws most of whom had been thieves and followers of carrion for countless years, condemned to this hardly desirable sort of life by various circumstances and never lucky enough to discover the well-filled war chest of some rich lord or anything valuable enough to put an end to this misery.  
  
Oh, now and then, there were good days, 'good' meaning that none of us remained hungry and cold, or even very good days - rare, but cherished the more because of that - on which the sale of some precious piece of loot enabled us to stay at an inn for some time, given that nobody asked too many questions so that we were able to keep up the unconvincing pretence of being a harmless party of travellers on their way to an imaginary destination.  
  
The last weeks or even months before the Battle of Five Armies could not be numbered among the good ones, not even among the more or less bearable ones; they had been exceedingly bad, in fact, and there had not really been any very good days since a seemingly harmless wound had become inflamed and had nearly killed me during the last weeks of winter.  
  
Now winter was approaching again, rather too rapidly for my taste, and we needed some good loot to get us over the cold months, coins, preferably, or one or the other precious object that could be exchanged for food during the dark time of the year when even hunting got difficult and breaking into houses was very risky.  
  
Above all, however, I needed a cloak to keep me warm, for the wretched excuse for one that I wore at that time (or, more precisely, that hung down sadly from my shoulders and made me look like a dishevelled crow, as my tactful father had dared phrase it the other day) was too ragged and thin to keep the cold away.  
  
I had had a much better cloak not so very long ago, dark blue and made of good cloth. I had come across it by chance in spring, and it had survived until the first chilly days of autumn had made me aware that Alagant - the little elfling had been growing far too quickly this last year! - needed a new cloak. The only thing I had managed to find at that time was the rag I was wearing now - and such a threadbare old piece of fabric had not been good enough to make a cloak for my son out of it. My blue cloak, in turn, had still looked quite decent, and it had not taken me long to make a cloak and a hood for the child.  
  
I was actually quite pleased with the results of my needlework, and Alagant did love them - they had been ada's cloak once, after all, and I was secretly glad that he was happy about them mainly because of this and not because he was overly aware yet that having a good cloak bordered on luxury. How long until he would see things more clearly, a year or two?  
  
I should have been proud that he was growing and learning, and actually, I was; yet, I found myself wishing to preserve the precious innocence of his thoughts and ways for some more time. Our life was grim enough even for the little one, so I was grateful for every further day he saw it in the friendly colours the sweet ignorance of childhood painted it in, an ignorance that would vanish soon enough; there were already inquisitive glances and moments of thoughtful silence indicating that a gradual change was taking place.  
  
At least, I could spare him the sight of the battlefields or their worst parts, and while I made my way towards the actual battlefield, passing first fallen warriors - all commoners, I could tell that there was nothing or little worth taking left on them - I was glad to know that Alagant was well looked after - or, well, was busy "looking after Uncle Seven", as he had said when I had left, putting a protective little arm around my sneezing friend.  
  
When we went out onto the battlefields or sites of smaller fights to pillage, one of us used to stay with Alagant, and this day, Seven, whose nickname referred to the fact that he had but seven fingers left, which was part of the reason why he had become an outlaw, had been the natural choice as he was suffering from a bad cold. He had caught it after he had fallen into a small river some days before, and if the cold that had resulted from this mishap was already bad enough, the fact that he had lost his scimitar in the fall and had not been able to retrieve it later was even more annoying, although I could not have foreseen what this - or rather the fact that I had lent Seven my sword in order not leave Alagant and him weaponless - would bring about.  
  
At that time, though, I was presumptuous enough to believe that the dagger I was carrying would be sufficient to defend myself, especially as I planned to look for some sort of sword, preferably a scimitar, to replace Seven's lost weapon. As to Seven, it was probably a very good thing that he was ill. I remembered only too well how his eyes had shone when he had seen the splendid scimitars of the goblins of Bolg's bodyguard from afar while those formidable warriors had passed us by in the distance some days ago. I would not have been surprised if Seven had ventured out rather too far onto the battlefield in the hope of finding one of the magnificent curved swords undamaged.  
  
I had to admit that I could have been tempted by those exquisite blades as well, but my desire was not great enough to make me lose my common sense. I was not especially keen on getting myself caught, and leaving the edge of the battlefield to search for loot out in the open would have meant to draw rather too much attention to what I was doing.  
  
While I did not know anything about what the dwarves would do to a robber of the dead - frankly speaking, I did not even want to know what they would do! - and had only some vague ideas on what the laws of the Men of Esgaroth might prescribe in such a case, I knew very well what would happen if I fell into the hands of elves.  
  
Elven laws - dare I say our laws? - were not especially lenient to thieves, although getting caught for the first time had not been that terrible, really. Of course, there had been a most tedious trial the outcome of which had been a foregone conclusion, and the punishment had been both humiliating and painful, but at least, I had been free again after some days, and hardly anything remained now to remind me of what had happened - that is, nothing but a brand.  
  
Whatever they had rubbed into the wound - for understandable reasons, I had not asked what exactly it had been at that time - had made the scar that had formed on my right wrist dark and not very pleasant to look upon, although, out of sheer vanity, I used to claim that, for a brand, it was rather beautiful and that the branding iron used had most certainly been the masterpiece of its smith, who had skilfully forged the metal into the shape of the first letter of the Quenya word cam-tehta, 'hand-mark'.  
  
Speaking of vanity - it proved to be my undoing, for it incited me not to take the first more or less acceptable cloak that came into sight, a greyish something that halfway covered a dead goblin in sad mockery of a proper shroud, but to move a bit closer to the actual battlefield, into the narrow stretch of land between the river and Ravenhill where mostly fleeing goblins and pursuing elves had fallen.  
  
It was there that I found what I had been looking for, or rather something better than I could ever have hoped for. At first, I did not even see the most important thing, but only spotted something glinting in the sun, and, hoping to have discovered a precious clasp or a jewel on the armour of a person of some importance, I moved nearer to the spot, foolish enough to leave the cover of the rocks and boulders between which I had been skulking before.  
  
There was a silver clasp indeed, shaped slightly asymmetrically like an elm leaf, fine engraved lines imitating the veins of the leaf so realistically that, had it not been for the colour, it could have seemed as if it had fallen straight from a tree. It was a superb piece, almost too beautiful to sell it, but I was certain that it would be able to buy us a few very good days.  
  
However, that was not all: the clasp was holding the most gorgeous cloak I had seen for a very long time. The fabric, green like leaves in early summer, robust, yet soft to the touch, was covered in sumptuous embroidery, vines of gold and red twining on the rich green. There were only minor bloodstains on it, and they would hardly be noticed by anybody later, when the cloak would be able to fall down in gentle folds instead of lying spread out as it did now, having come to rest on the stony ground as nicely by pure chance as any expensive garment carefully displayed on the table of a merchant's stall - and it was mine for the taking.  
  
I felt vaguely reminded of another cloak, one that had been worn by a young warrior of Nargothrond long years ago, not green, but of the darkest shade of red, less precious, yet decorated with similar vines and just as soft and warm. Halfway without noticing it, I smiled a little, for those had been better times, perhaps not as glorious as they seemed now when thinking of them, but deserving fond memories, for back then, that young warrior had been... well, a young warrior who still had both his eyes and some hope, and not a branded, one-eyed outlaw.  
  
Then my glance came to rest upon the face of the fallen elf wearing the cloak, and my smile vanished; I was here to obtain a cloak, not to indulge in memories of days long past. Getting too nostalgic on battlefields and allowing one's heart to govern the mind was not only bound to bring about a most melancholy mood, but could also be fatal. Yet looking at this dead warrior - tall and dark-haired, probably at least a captain - felt strange. It was not simply compassion that I felt. It might have been most appropriate to mourn the fallen, but if I had contemplated each and every one of them with regret and pity, it would have cost me my sanity.  
  
So while I had to admit that the fate of this warrior had not been the most agreeable one, the goblin arrow that had ended his life still protruding from his chest, I did not feel the vague grief that sometimes results from the death of a stranger, but had to deal with an unfamiliar thought. Perhaps it was due to that slightest bit of physical resemblance between the two of us, or to the fact that the sight of the cloak had stirred memories of better times, but I could not help thinking that this dead captain had been what I could have been as well if. if several things had turned out differently than they had actually done in my life.  
  
For an unpleasant moment, old sorrow returned, sharp and biting as the cold morning air and accompanied by memories of the foolish dreams I had harboured for some time after I had been thrown into the life I led now, dreams of becoming an honourable warrior again so that all would be well, of past mistakes being forgiven, if not forgotten, of deeds promising more glory than stealing from the dead on battlefields, of.  
  
Enough of this! Telling myself that, if I had become someone like this worthy warrior, I would probably also be as dead as he was now, I cast a last suspicious glance over to Ravenhill and bent down to rid the dead captain of his cloak.  
  
The clasp had already wandered into my pocket, and getting the cloak was not overly difficult either. I had done such things before and knew how to proceed with heavy and cumbrous dead bodies. In almost no time, I had managed to turn the dead warrior of Mirkwood, thereby rolling him off his cloak that was not held by that nice elm leaf any more. Picking up the garment, I rose; it was time to leave.  
  
It was in that moment that I saw him..  
  
TBC 


	3. Chapter 2 The Fierce Silvan Warrior and...

Responses to Reviewers  
  
Alagaith places a pile of freshly printed-out reviews in front of Tanglinna. "Work to do, Mordil! And please, read this one first! kingmaker says he suspects that I am 'a darn good thief'", he says with a flattered grin. "It is quite satisfying to see my professional skills appreciated... I believe our dear reviewer deserves a reward! Haven't you got any friends in Rivendell? You should convince them to introduce kingmaker to Lady Arwen very soon..." He seems unable to stop beaming at the review.  
  
Tanglinna smirks slightly. "I shall see what I can do. He certainly deserves to meet her. From what I can ascertain he is what is known as a fanboy and like their female counterparts they get rather ... giddy when confronted with their favorite...hm, obsessions." Grinning at this, he adds: "Never fear kingmaker, you are not alone as Tree knows several fanboys of the Lady Arwen, though her husband prefers the Lady Galadriel. I will have a talk with Thranduil about arranging a meeting for you. I suspect he is still, ahem, 'supporting' JastaElf. They are quite close you know, my dear king and my darling Jasta."  
  
Alagaith chuckles. "In that case, it is very suspicious that 'your darling Jasta' was almost knocked out cold when you called her this... And she even hugged you! I wonder if the king will like this..." He gives Tanglinna one of his well-known all too innocent looks.  
  
Tanglinna raises one brow. "The king knows that I would not move in on...erm...his 'territory'", he states, chuckling slightly. "And everyone knows that Jasta's heart belongs to the king alone, so I don't believe your concern ...and it is quite sincere" - a sneer underlines the utter lack of irony of this statement - "...is necessary."  
  
Alagaith smiles peacefully "Yes, yes, Mordil... Who said 'Unhand my wife, you villain?' But that is another story..." Successfully avoiding Tanglinna's glance, he turns to look at the reviews again. "Anyway, you still have a lot of other admirers... Venyatuime seems ecstatic that there are 'more Tanglinna stories' now - and thinks that 'Silver Peacock' is a 'great nickname'!" He smirks at this.  
  
The Master Archer promptly smirks back. "Yes, Venyatuime is a great fan of mine. She is quite wonderful. She belongs to an archery club, so she must be. As for the nickname...well, I suppose it isn't too bad... Silver Peacock indeed!" he mutters; then, however, he smiles. "But did you notice Hel's review, my dear thief? She thinks, and I quote 'Seems like there are two peacocks, not only one.'" A slow smirk spreads over his face.  
  
Alagaith grins a little. "Well, Hel, a wise man - or elf? I can't remember! - once said that the faults and flaws we spot in others are most often our own... So there may be two peacocks indeed - but as 'skulking peacock' would not sound quite as convincing as 'skulking cutpurse', I will not allow Tanglinna to change my nickname... Speaking of nicknames, Mordil - the evil witch queen calls you 'an old sourpuss'... She can't ever have seen you when you are under the influence of orcish brandy." Thinking of that special incident, he sniggers a bit.  
  
Tanglinna, in turn, frowns slightly. "I suppose that part of the tale will have to be told as well, won't it, O Linlote? One never has enough nicknames, though I will have to have a word with Legolas about 'Old Sourpuss.' Or perhaps I should let Kal the Magnificent talk with him, though she admits that they wouldn't be doing much talking... - fangurls!" he mutters, but quickly grins again. "Speaking of orcish brandy, you weren't exactly your old skulking self then either."  
  
This remark causes Alagaith to blush a little. "Well... perhaps not... But I suppose Kal the Magnificent's opinion of me will not be more favourable after hearing about that incident..." he replies with a dramatic sigh.  
  
"Just what are you implying?" Tanglinna enquires, puffing up slightly, like an offended peacock. "On second though, never mind. I don't want to know what you are going to say." Scowling a little, he continues: "Well, you have made a conquest, Linlote. Legolasluva seems to have become one of your fangurls. She thinks you are...what is the word? Oh yes, roguish. Hmph! Yes, I suppose he could be considered a rogue. I suppose I am rather boring for merely being an archer and one that is not...roguish." Folding his arms over his chest, he adds: "I don't think I am that boring.... Am I?"  
  
Alagaith gives him a highly roguish grin. "You are, Mordil - perfectly boring. Now cover your ears please."  
  
This strange request provokes a suspicious look from the silver- haired archer. "Why?"  
  
The thief is not ready to give any reasons. "Just do as bidden."  
  
"After you have just called me 'perfectly boring'?" Tanglinna retorts. "If I weren't such a nice, boring person I wouldn't comply so readily. Very well. I will humor you...just once." Having stated this, he covers his ears and glares upward.  
  
It is Alagaith's turn to look at him suspiciously now, but finally, he turns to the reviews again. "Very well, legolasluva... I must say that I am grateful for your kind words, I even feel honoured, but my joy was somewhat diminished by the fact that you classified Tanglinna as 'getting kinda old' and had to mention those 'stupid' things he did again... He does deserve better than being compared to me in such an unfavourable way - especially since he clearly has the better eye colour... My remaining eye is just plain grey, like the sky over Nargothrond on an extremely rainy day."  
  
Poking Tanglinna, he explains with the most harmless expression: "I have expressed my gratitude for those most flattering compliments properly now... We can continue."  
  
"I can only imagine what you have said about me." Tanglinna answers with yet another suspicious glance before he looks back at the reviews. "Dis Thrainsdotter, you and I need to get together some time to reminisce about the friends we remember but we have lost. I extend my sympathies to you on your losses." He presses his hand to his heart, head bowed; after a moment of silence, he points to the next review. "Nilmandra has nearly as many sentences ending in question marks as periods." Chuckling slightly at this discovery, he proceeds: "Shall we answer them all in order? Something like 'Yes; Yes; Probably;Partly;No;Yes.'`?" He frowns a bit, contemplating these short answers. "Did I do that correctly?"  
  
Alagaith nods. "Yes, as far as I can see... But the theories expressed in sentences with periods are also... intriguing. Why does she believe that I must have been in the mines?" Turning to look at Tanglinna, he enquires: "Do I look like that?"  
  
The Master Archer chokes back a laugh and has to clear his throat before he answers: "Of course not.... Were you...in the mines, I mean?"  
  
Alagaith shakes his head "No. Some of my friends were, but I was... elsewhere." Knowing very well that this description is rather vague, he grins somewhat sheepishly. "Nilmandra will find out sooner or later, I suppose. For, as daw the minstrel kindly points out, I do have 'a past and hopes and a family'..."  
  
"Which all leads to the questions about your lady-wife", Tanglinna observes. "Do you wish to answer them?" As he knows about the lady-wife, he wonders about Alagaith's willingness to speak of her.  
  
The thief suddenly looks very serious. "She was not an outlaw..." he says after some hesitation. "Not at first. And she died in childbirth... Oh well - enough of her now, even if ember cannot wait to learn more!" Turning his head, he pretends to be studying. . . something. . . somewhere.  
  
Tanglinna lays a hand on Alagaith's shoulder. "Well..." he starts and clears his throat. "Lutris, as you see, I didn't tell Linlote very much at first, as I was a bit too angry to say very much as I suppose the name 'Old Sourpuss' would be all too true. But I did manage to 'tell him' a few things later." He winks.  
  
Alagaith is smiling again. "Indeed you did... And you were certainly as 'poetic' as Miss Aranel says!" he replies with a chuckle.  
  
"I wouldn't have called what I told you poetic, but thank you, Miss Aranel, for thinking that, on occasion, I can be." Tanglinna answers and bows slightly; then, he smirks. "Well, I suppose it will soon be time to introduce our...our supporting actors. Then things get rather...well...odd and ... odd..." Frowning slightly, he finally concludes: "Yes, odd is definitely the word for it."  
  
Alagaith is frowning as well now. "Yes, odd... Shall we continue our tale?"  
  
"Most assuredly." Tanglinna confirms and grins in what he hopes is a 'roguish' manner. "Perhaps I can win back some of legolasluva's heart before it is all over."  
  
He winks at the screen and then grins at Alagaith who instantly grins back. "Impossible! - But on with the tale now."  
  
Chapter 2 - In Which a Fierce Silvan Warrior Meets a Noldorin Thief  
  
Tanglinna's POV  
  
My senses - battle-honed and hardened - took over, and I had my bow drawn, arrow nocked and pointed at his one good eye in a heartbeat. It is only with a tight control that I kept the arrow snug against the string and not buried in his waiting flesh. My eyes flicked over the eye patch, which brought a brief flow of unpleasant and unwanted memories. Growling slightly, and with more force than was necessary, I hastily kicked Lalven's sword out his reach, not that this thief wouldn't be dead before his fingers brushed the cold, bloodstained metal.  
  
"Who are you?" I hissed through tightly clenched teeth.  
  
As my initial shock and anger receded beneath the cold, impassionate aspect that comes all too readily on the battlefield - a necessity of survival - I studied him critically, noting the ragged clothing was ill fitting and worn. But the thing that captured my attention was his cloak, perhaps because Lalven's cloak was still clasped in his hands, not dropped hastily on the ground. I must have caught him more off guard than I thought. The cloak this thief wore was as tattered as the rest of his clothing, but was draped in such a way that I knew what he was. The way the folds were caught up in the brooch designed in a distinctive spiraling pattern spoke all to clearly to the fact that he was a Noldo..A Noldo. The brooch could have been stolen, though who but one of the Noldor would drape their cloak in such a fashion?  
  
I felt the hot anger returning. He was one of the Noldor.   
  
The day that Doriath fell beneath the blood-hued blades of Feanor's sons was a day I tried not to think on. It was the sort of day that is nightmarish in its intensity and air of unreality; it was the day that what innocence I still possessed was swept away on a rushing tide of fear and death. Kill or be killed was the maxim that pounded through our brains and our souls. On that day . . . I killed an elf . . . . Then the driving emotion had been fear and horror at what was being done, but with this petty Noldorin thief before me, it was anger. I don't think he knew how close to death he was at that moment.  
  
Lalven's cloak, the rich green fabric pouring over his hands, was clear evidence of his guilt. Stealing from the dead . . . . A wave of disgust broke over me.  
  
Elven laws on theft are severe, and few are willing to risk the punishment that will befall them if caught in such a crime. I suspect that is why the punishments are so harsh, to work as a deterrent to wrongdoing. The first offense of a thief is punished with branding - a cam-tehta is burned into the skin of the right wrist, something not easily hidden. It is a severe punishment, a lasting punishment. This mark, known to all elves, is a mark of shame, something one must live with forever. It is a symbol of a thief; it shows that you are someone who cannot be trusted, a disgrace. How must this feel, to know that anyone who sees it will regard you only with suspicion and perhaps contempt? All of this was what the Noldorin elf risked - merely to take a cloak from a dead warrior.  
  
Scars may mar the skin, but they mark the soul as well. As elves do not scar easily, they are usually the result of a deliberate act. Scars are a constant reminder of the act that brought them into being or in the case of the cam-tehta the act that perpetrated it. One must learn to live with them, and this is not always an easy thing.  
  
Anger at his stupidity made my next words come out in a harsh bark.  
  
"Drop the cloak and lie down with your face to the ground, Noldo, or my arrow will find a new home in your throat."  
  
He had told me his name, though I didn't speak it. To speak it would make him real - make him a person. I didn't want to think of him that way; he was a thief and he needed to remain a thief so I could take him to whatever judgment was passed upon him. If I acknowledged his name, I might pity him; our laws leave little room for pity.  
  
I could see the fear on his face and he complied quickly, for which I was grateful. A pang of remorse sang through me for another elf from another time haunted me once again. I had not extended the courtesy of speech to that elf in Doriath; he had died without being aware that I was there, not much more than a scared child caught up in the fear and confusion of that day seeing only the injustice of what that Noldo was doing, slaughtering elves I had known . . . . We had fought side by side at Dagorlad, old grievances laid aside for a greater cause, but I admit that what happened at Doriath had shaped my thoughts toward them. Perhaps I should have spoken to the Noldorin elf in Doriath . . . .  
  
I shook my head to rid it of these thoughts, though standing on a bloodstained battlefield amid my fallen comrades brings such somber and unwanted meditations.  
  
I drew a breath, exhaling slowly before I placed my foot against his neck, not hard enough to hurt him, but exerting enough pressure to let him know that I would brook no opposition from him. I bent my long bow to unstring it; the strong cord would suffice to ties his hands, immobilize him until I could turn him over to someone who could secure him with stronger ropes or chains.  
  
He would stand trial, but the verdict was a foregone conclusion. I felt a pang of regret that I was the one to find him holding the cloak in his hands. I wondered if he would try to dispute this, for surely he knew what would happen to him when he was pronounced guilty. If he were lucky Thranduil would send him to Mirkwood for the trial; at least he would have a few extra days before the cam-tehta was marked on his wrist, changing his life forever. Or perhaps that would only make it worse. Anxiety about the unknown or what we think we know, can be more trying than the actuality itself. . . .  
  
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Alagaith's POV  
  
Clad in green and grey, equipped with one of those dreaded long bows against which armour offers no protection, piercing silver eyes fixed on me, the epitome of a woodland archer was standing in front of me - and unfortunately his arrow was pointed at me. I dared not move.  
  
Resting immobile meant - and this was even more unfortunate - that I kept standing where I was, the fallen captain lying at my feet and part of the evidence for my crime in my very hands for, of course, I was still holding the gorgeous cloak. It might have been possible to come up with an explanation for this situation, not with a story that anybody would have believed, of course, but with something that sounded at least possible enough to enable a compassionate captor to pretend he was convinced that I had merely lifted up the cloak out of curiosity, convinced enough to let me escape. For caught I was, and already as good as condemned, not only because this Silvan warrior did not look as if he had any pity to spare for a robber of the dead. While picking up a cloak was, perhaps, not a crime in itself, there was nothing that could excuse the presence of the silver elm leaf in my pocket.  
  
If I was lucky, they would give me a fair trial - but I knew well enough that, on a battlefield, a trial could be over in a few moments, and after the hideous bloodshed of the previous night, their minds and hearts hardened by what they had done and suffered, they would not be too reluctant to hew off a filthy thief's hand; for this was what was going to happen.  
  
Elven laws on theft were as severe as simple - a brand for the first offence, the loss of a hand for the second, and being caught for the third time usually meant that there would never be a fourth time. Ironically, the second time was bound to lead straight to the third. I did not know if the doubtlessly wise lawmakers and the equally wise judges who applied those laws really believed that someone who had been unable or unwilling to lead an honest life before would miraculously be changed as soon as one hand was missing - but perhaps I was misjudging them, and the only purpose of those laws consisted in discouraging those toying with the thought of stealing. Perhaps it did deter those who still had a choice.  
  
However, the fact that they took but one hand instead of a life - though I had seen people die of such a wound if it was ill-tended - might have indicated that such a sentence was not only meant as punishment, but also comprised the slightest bit of hope that the wicked offender would not relapse into his old ways. It was not quite obvious to me how that change for the better was going to take place. I, for my part, was fairly certain that losing a hand would not bring me any closer to some resemblance of respectability. If my last dreams of regaining what I had lost had died the day I had been branded, they would be buried if my hand was cut off. How very strange that everything they did to punish a thief would make him even more of a thief and an outcast!  
  
Being a branded thief had already robbed me of any chance to regain a place in elven society, for who would ever welcome someone who was "a veritable shame to all elvendom" - those, at least, were the words of my prospective mother-in-law when she forbade me to see her daughter ever again - and believe him that he had learnt his lesson? But had forgiveness ever been offered, I could have been of some use. Without any self- flattery, I could claim that I had been quite an able warrior once - I had beaten Lord Gwindor at swordplay twice before he was made a slave in Morgoth's mines (and, well, he in turn had beaten me three times back then) and was still rather proud thereof, and I did not lack other skills that might have been used for earning a living in a perfectly honourable way, but after the loss of a hand - especially if they would choose to cut off my right hand, and I was sure they would do so - the range of things I could do would be greatly diminished, while stealing would still be possible, if a bit more difficult.  
  
Maybe - maybe! - I could have admitted that for certain. . . mistakes I had made, some sort of punishment was in order, but this?  
  
I am straying from the story I am supposed to tell, though, for I cannot claim that I calmly mused on all of this the very moment I was standing on the battlefield; much of it only came to my mind during the following hours and days.  
  
My first thought was, in fact, that my hand was forfeit, the stolen clasp proving my crime, the brand denouncing what I was, and for the briefest span of time, I already saw myself confined in a gloomy cell until the terrible wound was healed, not turning me out into the wild wounded and weakened being the only sort of mercy they would grant me, no real mercy, though, but rather a further cruelty, as my friends and family would hardly be able to wait for my release out here at this time of the year, if they ever learnt what had happened to me and where I had been taken, so that being free again some day would not be overly pleasant either, but would mean a long row of sad and lonely days that I would spent learning how to survive somehow marred and crippled.  
  
But - as my father would have said, giving me a stern look of reprimand for being so afraid - fear had never won a battle, and so I made an effort to breathe steadily and to force my wayward thoughts into the right direction, towards an escape plan that would work.  
  
At the moment, I was at this archer's mercy, but we were alone, and therein lay my only hope. True enough, there was hardly anything I could do - and certainly nothing I would do! - if he simply kept the arrow aimed at me; I would have to go along with whatever he asked of me, as I was not foolish enough to believe that he would not shoot me if I gave him reason to do so. I was, however, fairly certain that he would not simply order me to walk ahead of him, not even necessarily because he thought that I would attempt something foolish. A warrior's pride could be his downfall, and this fine archer looked like a proud warrior who would not consider a miserable thief a worthy foe. He would probably assume that he could safely try to tie my hands, and to do so, he would have to put down his bow. For a moment, however brief, we would be more or less equally matched, and I would grasp that opportunity.  
  
For the first time in weeks, I was very grateful to know that I looked rather pathetic. This valiant woodland warrior would not suspect that the pitiable and somewhat starved bundle of rags he was facing actually knew quite well how to fight. If I could lull him into believing that I admitted defeat even now, I would be able to take him by surprise. It was a pity I had left my sword with Seven - or perhaps not so great a pity at all, for while my sword would have been visible, my dagger was well hidden, and perhaps, the archer did not even suspect that I was armed. Yes, I would take him by surprise!  
  
"Who are you?" my prospective captor asked - or rather hissed, to be precise.  
  
"Alagaith Alagaerion." I replied after the slightest bit of hesitation, using my full name, partly to feign that I was ready to comply with whatever he asked of me, partly because it felt oddly reassuring to state then and there that this was who I was. It had been a good and proud name in the beginning, and it was still my name, though less frequently used than in my youth, quite the only thing that had remained mine all the time. Claiming it now helped to counteract the contempt and disgust I read in this most respectable warrior's eyes. I took great care not to sound too defiant, though; he had to be convinced that I would not offer much resistance.  
  
"Drop the cloak and lie down with your face to the ground, Noldo, or my arrow will find a new home in your throat", the archer ordered, sounding rather determined, to say the very least.  
  
I did as bidden, and it did not even cost me an effort to look frightened. Truth to tell, I was afraid. Even if I hoped to be able to take my opponent unawares, it would have been fatal to underestimate him; he was certainly not invincible, but not harmless either. It was not that he appeared to be a trained warrior, and one too recently emerged from battle to have calmed down completely. I must admit that the way he acted and talked did scare me.  
  
The prospect of being caught by a fierce Silvan warrior had not been pleasant, and having to realize that the aforementioned scary wood-elf was also slightly unhinged did not exactly make things better. Whoever felt he had to boast with his poor rhetorical skill in such a situation was either not quite in his right mind or a pompous fool who believed that his sad attempt at a use of poetic language would impress me while a simple 'Lie down or I will shoot you' would have been quite sufficient.  
  
Something else was strange about what he had said. I had not expected him to use my name - they never did - but it occurred to me that it was peculiar that he would address me as 'Noldo'. Of course, he was Silvan, while I obviously was not, but it did surprise me that he would consider ancestry as the defining quality setting us apart from each other. The circumstances under which we had met simply did not invite making that kind of distinction. Had he called me 'thief' or 'villain' or whatever flattering descriptions could have come to his mind in this situation, I would not have been overly surprised, but 'Noldo' did sound as if he was prejudiced enough to detest me even for the one thing that I was fairly innocent of. I could hardly be held responsible for the fact that I had been born to Noldorin parents. But would these matters be of any importance, anyway? I would be gone before he could act on his silly prejudices, or so I hoped.  
  
It was a bit awkward that he had decided to make me lie down and place a foot against my neck; he would sense any movement, however small, and would not tolerate it. Reaching for my dagger now was not an option. I could only hope that I would manage to throw my captor off and run to reach the rocks again before he could string his bow again - for he was unstringing it now, probably planning to put the bowstring to an unintended and unpleasant use. I would have to try to use the brief span of time he would need to restring it to run for cover, and once his arrows could not reach me that easily any more, I would be more or less safe. He could follow me, if he so chose, but if I found a better weapon than a mere dagger - and there simply had to be some sword lying around, of that I was certain! - he would not stand a chance. And if it did not work . . . If it did not work, I would be able to trade the name of 'One-Eye' for 'One- Hand', so it simply had to work.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
Tanglinna's POV  
  
I had unstrung my bow, the string stained with sweat, dirt, and blood, a small reminder of the great conflict so recently passed.  
  
"Don't move," I muttered at that wretched Noldo, slowly removing my foot from his neck.  
  
I had not carried my sword with me; I had been only too glad to lay it aside after the battle was over. I was an archer, not a swordsman, though I do know how to use one. We all do. My arm and shoulders still ache from getting too reacquainted with Celair-Dagnir, my bright sword. It had been left back at our camp, peaceful once more as it lay by my bedroll. I did carry my dagger, Don Gwaedh, at my waist. I sincerely hoped that I would not need it, not even to threaten this Noldo.  
  
I knelt swiftly beside him; prepared to pull his wrists behind his back, bind them with the bowstring. It was strong and would hold him as long as was necessary.  
  
The next thing I knew, I was on my back staring at the cold sky, pain knifing across my right hand.  
  
What had happened?!  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
Alagaith's POV:  
  
To describe what happened between the moment my captor knelt by my side to tie my wrists with his bowstring and the moment I darted off across the stony ground would take more time than my actual actions; suffice to say that disobeying the order not to move, turning, unsheathing my dagger, throwing my captor to the ground, slashing the fingers of his draw-hand and jumping up to run for the cover of the rocks were one movement.  
  
It may seem like unnecessary cruelty that I chose to cut the archer's fingers, but it was, in fact, a precautionary measure. Even if surprise and pain would not be sufficient to distract him long enough to enable me to get to safety, it would cost him more of an effort to restring his bow and nock an arrow, and if I was fast, I could reach the rocks before he could either shoot me or catch up with me.  
  
So I ran, knowing well enough that, if I was caught again after this attack, more than a hand might be at stake.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
Tanglinna's POV  
  
That cursed Noldo thief!!  
  
It took me a few heartbeats to realize what he had done and, ignoring the pain that burned where he had cut my fingers - he had *dared* to cut my fingers! - I pushed off the ground, filled with the anger that I had fought off earlier when I had first found him. A snarl split my lips and with a growl, eyes flashing as the coward fled, leaping nimbly across the rocky terrain, I started after him. He would be very sorry that he had merely shoved me down and cut me! I pulled Don Gwaedh from its sheath..  
  
Yes, he would be very sorry!  
  
TBC 


	4. Chapter 3 Which Begins Before a Great a...

Responses to Reviewers  
  
Alagaith Alagaerion looked at the reviews with a happy smile, then grinned at his companion.  
  
"Have you read this one, Mordil? *kingmaker* says I fought well in the last chapter . . . . He wonders what I 'can do with proper weapons' when on my feet, and apparently, he would like to see a little demonstration of my skills . . . . Very well, that can be arranged! And thank you for your kind words, *kingmaker* . . . ." The one-eyed Noldor looked very pleased indeed . . . one might say too pleased, or so a certain archer thought.  
  
Tanglinna silently read the review, then straightened and folded his arms over his chest, one brow raised. "Well, since I am determined to be the villain of this piece, perhaps we can arrange it so you can show your skills with the scimitar and sword against me." Suddenly a slow smile crosses his face. "But don't worry, Linlote, I would not do that to you. I would not want to embarrass you." The tall Silvan struggles then to keep his face expressionless, the veritable image of a unreadable Wood-Elf, but fails and begins to laugh. "You are quite right, *kingmaker*. Alagaith is very skilled with weapons and I know he far excels my meager skills in that department . . .with a sword anyway. But did you just agree that it is a small wonder that I am "a tad unhinged"? Hm?" He snorted slightly. "Kind words indeed, youngling!"  
  
Alagaith smiled at Tanglinna. "Thanks for the undeserved praise, Mordil." Then, he chuckled. "But the number of people who quoted that 'slightly unhinged' bit is frightening . . . . *Hel*, for instance, calls you 'a slightly unhinged woodland elf with bad memories about the Noldor' . . . . Oh, that latter bit is definitely true!" The dark-haired Noldo sighs dramatically, raising his one eye to the heavens.  
  
Tanglinna eyes him suspiciously. "Why are you being so nice? This is not entirely like you. I," he said and cleared his throat a bit before continuing, still watching the other elf. "I was a bit 'unhinged' at that moment . . .my apologies to *kingmaker* for picking on him about it . . . ." He frowned slightly then, his silver eyes perplexed. "Now, why am I being so nice?" He shook his head and turned to read *Hel*'s review. "Did you notice Linlote that she knows I was going to recapture you with no problem?" He grinned smugly, gazing back at the Noldo.  
  
Alagaith inclined his head graciously. "In that case, she must know you well . . . . But she is not the only one who seems to be sure that you would be able to overpower me - *the evil witch queen* even thinks she knows the details!"  
  
"*The evil witch queen* has even more creative ideas than . . . a certain author I know very well . . . not that I would ever tell the aforementioned author that, she IS unhinged at times and I would not wish to upset her. But I must say that Alagaith," he frowns a bit then shrugs, "is not nearly the fool I thought him at the time. I was a bit,"Tanglinna sighed and shook his 'sparkly silver head', "unhinged and not . . . thinking properly . . . . AND," shooting a look at a certain *Ubiquitous Pitt*, "boring?! No one has ever accused me of that before! It is a good thing that I like you, mel-nin, as no one else would get away with saying that about me. "  
  
Alagaith grinned roguishly. "Oh yes . . . . And don't forget 'disturbed enough to be actively avoided'! That was very . . . friendly as well. Hm, but apparently, *Ubiquitous Pitt* likes me!" His grin widened, grey eye shining. "And she is right about Dragon and her love for a certain writer's works... 'Clever clever' indeed."  
  
"Hm, clever? She likes you . . . quite a bit it seems, so that makes me question her cleverness." He smirks at the red-headed *Ubiquitous Pitt*.  
  
Alagaith laughed in amusement. "Then you might appreciate *ember*'s wisdom instead! She seems to be very aware that slashing your fingers was not exactly the most brilliant idea I ever had in regard to possible consequences . . . ."  
  
"No, it wasn't clever of you at all. Perhaps I was not the only "unhinged" one at that moment. Though *daw the minstrel* was quite glad when you were able to escape . . . if only for a time. A one-handed elf, hm? Now that is a bit scary."  
  
"The one-handed Noldor in particular?" Alagaith countered with a wink. "Well "*Phoenix Flight* must know that you do not exactly approve of one-handed elves - the theory that you would have thought differently about my flight if you had known my hand was at stake is expressed in that review."  
  
"Well, I did know about your hand . . . hm, is this some remark about what will happen in this chapter!?" Tanglinna glowered slightly at Alagaith. "I don't know how I mi-," he halted mid-sentence. "Hm. Anyway, *Dis Thrainsdotter*, Dorwinion is always good as is orcish brandy, though tea is also nice. Is it alright if I invite Alagaith to accompany me when I visit you?"  
  
Alagaith shook his head in astonishment. "Mordil, you are impossible!" he whispered. "You cannot simply ask a lady to extend her invitation to me! And then - you do not know what she thinks about me . . . . If her opinion of me is close to *Kal the Magnificent's*, I hardly stand a chance of ever being invited . . . ."  
  
"I think you are mistaken, Linlote. *Kal the Magnificent* feels very sorry for you! I am sure she would invite you to tea . . . if you brought Prince Legolas with you, of course." He smirked slightly at this. "Everyone would invite us both if we were accompanied by him. I believe that *mekareQ* has asked an excellent question. What DID Seven think your cutting my fingers?"  
  
"Do you really want to know?"  
  
"And why wouldn't I?"  
  
"Very well, Mordil," Alagaith began reluctantly. "He thought it was the best thing I could do in that situation." He glances guiltily at the other elf.  
  
"I see," Tanglinna answered slowly with a frown. "Well, he is right." His brows rose slightly, a self-satisfied smirk on his face. "You see, I do rock as *mekareQ* said so aptly." Then he grinned, knowing he sounded just like a peacock. "But in the future, you should take *Lutris*'s advice: learn better than to make me furious. She is quite wise really."  
  
"I will not cut your fingers again . . . . Not because I fear your terrible wrath," the Noldo thief said with a grin, "but because it was 'very nasty' to cut your fingers, even if it was useful - *Miss Aranel* is quite right! And small wonder she sympathizes with you, as her own fingers were not quite undamaged either... I hope she has gotten rid of the band- aids again by now!"  
  
"I am sure she has recovered. It has taken entirely too long for this chapter to be completed," the archer said with a pointed look at the authoresses, who in turn look at the elves just as pointedly. "Um, well, yes . . . . It must be rather trying to be a nursing student. That is quite admirable of her. *Legolasluva* likes us both. And that is very nice of her. I know you can be somewhat hard to like," he said with a grin, "and I can be even more impossible. Or perhaps the word is irrepressible as *JastaElf* calls us. I hope you enjoyed your time at the opera with the king, lend-nin."  
  
Alagaith grinned impishly. "Oh, and she is furious with me for hurting her 'dear Tanglinna' . . . . That is good to know, if I ever have to blackmail her . . . ."  
  
Tanglinna turned to regard the thief and wondered why he wanted to add blackmailer to his list of questionable occupations. "Why would you wish to blackmail her?"  
  
Alagaith cocked his head a little to one side. "Well, Mordil . . . for the same reason I might wish to blackmail you!" He grinned then turned away as Tanglinna's cheeks redden, and the Silvan muttered something about not ever having done anything that he could be blackmailed for. Alagaith merely smiled at this.  
  
*Erestor*," he began, "my insufferable author and I have one thing in common - we usually admit to our crimes, and therefore, Dragon is a bit partial about having me recognized as *her* crime . . . . A considerable lack of humility, but that is how it is."  
  
"You are quite a crime, my dear Linlote." Tanglinna winked at him and chuckled, though he is still wondered if he ever has done something that he could be blackmailed for. "Tree can take no credit whatever for you, I fear. Though this leads to an interesting suggestion by *Phoenix23531*. Would our readers know who was whom if they didn't write Alagaith's POV or Tanglinna's POV on top of every section? Hm . . . that is something to consider. Tree has already taken care of that, as you will see. She also truly seems to want to know more of your history. I suppose she thinks you are quite fascinating. You shall have to comply, you realize. As for dear *ember*," Tanglinna smiled fondly at her, "yes, he is in trouble, mel-nin. Unfortunately, we will both be in a bit of trouble before this tale is over."  
  
"And that, Venyatuima, may be part of the answer to your question 'how those two ever managed to become friends'," Alagaith said with a smile.  
  
"Who said that we did?" Tanglinna asked, lifting one brow. "That is indeed the story, and quite a story it is as you will see very soon now. But what is this? *amlugwen* must be Galadriel in disguise! How did she know that I missed . . . .that I . . . " The Silvan frowned slightly, folding his arms over his chest. "I was merely in . . . in a hurry and I missed the cam-tehta! Who told you that? Was it that orc with you?" He glanced suspiciously at *amlugwen*'s orc.  
  
Alagaith cocked his head a little. "That is possible . . . . Speaking of orcs, Seven will be happy that *amlugwen* asked about him . . . . But . . . . " He suddenly looks very troubled and pointed to the last review. "Tanglinna . . . . Are you sure that this was not written by *someone* in disguise as well?"  
  
The archer leaned toward the screen and read Katharine's review. His jaw sagged a bit and he glanced at Alagaith in some dismay. "You don't suppose it is, do you? I mean . . . no, it must just be Katharine . . . but . . . but . . . ." He smiled warily. "Um, dear Kate, if that is you, and I sincerely hope it is . . . well . . . ." He glanced at Alagaith once more, eyes wide. "Well, I will send her a strand of hair . . . or three, and if she gets them then we will know it is her and not . . . well . . .*someone* else."  
  
Alagaith nodded, equally wary. "This is a good plan . . . a really good plan . . . . But what are we to do if it is not her?" He gave Tanglinna a worried look. "Will you promise me not to venture out into a certain part of Mirkwood alone until we are certain?"  
  
Tanglinna paled visibly. "I won't leave the house!" he mutterd. "Um, Kate? If that is you, I will sing the Ten Little Squirrels song for you." He smiles at the screen, still looking a little ill. "Please be Kate and not . . . him . . . ."  
  
Alagaith briefly clasped Tanglinna's shoulder. "We can only hope . . . . But for now, we should continue with the tale before we get too . . . . engrossed in sweet memories." His smile turned sarcastic now.  
  
Tanglinna spluttered at this remark, then glowers at Alagaith, shaking his hand from his shoulder. "Don't touch me!" he hisses, recalling that the memories were anything but sweet.  
  
Alagaith withdraws apologetically. "Sorry . . . . That was very thoughtless of me!"  
  
Tanglinna straightens his tunic and shrugs. "I think we are getting ahead of ourselves here. He hasn't made it into this story yet. I am sorry I snapped at you . . . it is only that . . .well . . . he makes me . . . nervous." Tanglinna frowned a bit, trying not to shudder at the thought of the mysterious 'he'. "Yes, we should proceed with this chapter." Slowly a smirk comes over his lips. "You do look nice in blue though." He raises his brows and then started to laugh.  
  
Alagaith laughed as well. "Don't tell them too much, Mordil - on with the story now before this chatty Silvan ruins it all!"  
  
"Um, Linlote. You do owe Tree something for not typing the word "loved" instead of "laughed", for you did not say "laughed" but "loved". I believe that he is starting to get to you," the smirking Silvan remarked enigmatically. "Seems you might ruin it all. . . ."  
  
Chapter 3 - Which Begins Before a Great and Good King and Ends at the Bottom of a Hole  
  
It was my own fault for sending those younglings for help - as if I would use the word 'help'! I didn't need 'help'. He was just a wretched thief, after all! And yet, somehow, by the time that Noldo was finally brought before Arasceleg - who has the authority to make such decisions about prisoners - Thranduil was there, his silver armor flashing in the autumnal sunlight, a speculative look on his face. For a moment I thought I saw a flash of concern, but I might have been mistaken. I saw his eyes sweep over me appraisingly; my appearance was admittedly not at its best, and one dark golden brow rose slightly before he turned to regard the thief . . . whose appearance was somewhat worse than mine.  
  
I had leapt upon him, knocking us both to the rather unforgiving ground, this one-eyed thief taking the brunt of our fall. We rolled to an awkward stop against a rock outcropping, at which point I drew Don Gwaedh and, grabbing a handful of his dark hair, yanked his head up, easing the point of the dagger against his throat.  
  
"Don't - do - that - again," I rasped out, feeling a bit out of breath - we had hit the ground fairly hard, and I was glad that it was *only* those younglings that had seen this somewhat . . . undignified scene, for they were too afraid of "Master Tanglinna" to tell of our ungraceful tumble over the terrain . . . or so I sincerely hoped.  
  
With aid from the young warriors, I managed to tie the rogue's hands, muttering curses under my breath the entire time -not all of them directed at our prisoner; some were leveled at myself - my fingers stinging and aching, soaking the borrowed bowstring with my blood. The young elf that was gracious enough - and had enough presence of mind -offered his string to me as mine was lying somewhere behind us on the ground where I had dropped it . . . when he pushed me down . . . when he cut my fingers . . . .  
  
Growling, I yanked him to his feet, never loosening my grip on his arm. I told the other staring youngling, who look full of fear and confusion, to keep an arrow trained on him and to shoot him if he tried anything.  
  
I hoped the Noldo wouldn't try to do something foolish as I doubted this young warrior of ours would be able to shoot him, even to wound him. Shooting a spider or a goblin is one thing, but shooting another elf . . . that is not so easy, especially if the only target is his back.  
  
As we started toward the camp, my bow-hand clasped firmly about his right bicep, I stared down at my bleeding fingers. He had cut them purposefully knowing it would be hard for me to use my bow. He is no fool, this Noldo. No, I had been the fool when I underestimated him. He was desperate and would use desperate measures to gain his freedom. I would not be caught off guard again.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*  
  
It was over. I had had my one chance to escape, and I had not used it wisely. We are always tempted to explain away our failures, and of course, I could blame the malevolent powers of fate, who had apparently chosen to conspire against me that day, or claim that something I could not have foreseen by any means stopped my flight, but that would be nothing but a convenient lie. What had happened had been my fault.  
  
Perhaps, there had been a shred of bad luck in it, for while I had been lying flat on the ground, the rocks that had been the destination I had headed for later had been to our right and, consequently, on my blind side, as my captor had obviously meant the order to lie down with my face to the ground quite literally. Due to this, I had not been able to study the terrain across which my flight had led in advance, but that was a rather lame excuse and sounded so even to me - I should have done so much earlier, when I had made my way towards that promising brooch. Underestimating my opponent and naked fear had done the rest - so, in a way, it was just punishment that I found myself tightly bound with a bowstring and bruised all over after a very short time.  
  
I did not offer any resistance when my captor - by the way, he knew some curses that even I had never come across before! - dragged me to my feet and led me towards the elven camp, not only because he had ordered some scared youngling to shoot me if I tried to escape. The bowstring felt solid enough, and if I had not even been a match for one of their warriors, I would not be able to get past several of them, not now, after my first escape attempt had made them vigilant. Thinking about escape would have been a waste of time; I had to find a way of making the best of this situation - while knowing very well that even the best would be rather unpleasant, but still less horrible than the worst.  
  
I would not deny my guilt; I knew I would not be able to come up with a believable, yet harmless, explanation for the presence of the silver elm leaf in my pocket, so disputing the matter would have been slightly ridiculous. My hand was forfeit that much was certain. I had to be careful and compliant now to make sure that the damage would be limited to that; the theft could not be undone, but perhaps, I could think of some explanation that would justify my attacking the archer - wounding an unsuspecting elf was not exactly a minor offence, so I had to find some sort of excuse, or I would lose more than just a hand . . . . My head, maybe. This prospect did not put me in the right state of mind to make cunning plans, so I made an effort to concentrate on the one thing that was of utmost importance - I had to make my captors believe that I was alone. If they had any reason to suspect that there was a whole group of outlaws around, they would almost certainly search for them, and I did not want to imagine the result.  
  
I would admit my guilt, I would tell them I was alone if they asked - and only if they asked! - and I would be composed, calm and meek . . . . Repeating this over and over in my head made walking towards the camp, and towards imprisonment, somewhat easier, as it kept me from thinking too much.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
Perhaps Thranduil was correct. . . I must indeed be getting old - though what that means for an elf, I do not know -for when I handed the thief over to Arasceleg and he ordered the Noldo bound with ropes sturdier than the bowstring I had used, something that escaped my notice- much to my chagrin - did not escape his.  
  
I heard a hiss of surprise from Arasceleg, whom I have known since I came to Greenwood with Oropher, and he turned to me, his green eyes narrowed.  
  
"Cam-tehta," he murmured, thrusting the thief's wrist out so I too could see the telltale mark that marred his pale flesh. I stared at the mark, so very visible where the too short sleeve had been pulled up to bare the right wrist. He did bear the cam-tehta; he was already a branded thief. My eyes flicked upward to the Noldo's face. His features were quite impassive and I wondered just how he must be feeling. He knew what the judgment would be, probably only too well. It would appear that some people never learn from their past mistakes. His thieving ways had brought about this loss of his hand, or they would - it was only a matter of time, for that was indeed the punishment for being caught at this crime a second time. And I had missed it. This did not please me.  
  
It pleased me even less when a low, smooth-as-silk, and oh-so- sarcastic voice whispered from behind me, "Are you certain that you are awake, Tanglinna? Or are you getting old as the doddering ancients of the Men do? You must be if you failed to see that."  
  
I turned my head slightly to see Thranduil standing at shoulder. He seemed in a good mood this cold morning, if a bit subdued. It is never easy to lose your people in battle, and he felt every fled life deeply. I decided that I would allow him his fun at my expense, but I could not quite stop the sneer that twisted my lips, and was rewarded with a quiet chuckle as he strode past me to confront the thief.  
  
Arasceleg had the Noldo's pockets searched, and his meager possessions were thrust into my hands by a grinning Nifgelir, whose bright eyes were sparkling with glee to see his Master Archer caught in a moment of laxity. I had taught this youngling the ways of the bow and this is how he repaid me! I glared at him, and was filled with satisfaction when his eyes widened and his gaze dropped to the ground uncomfortably. Feeling mildly vindicated in this at least, I looked at the objects in my hands, but then opened the pouch at my waist and dropped them in. I knew that they, my friends and comrades, would not let me forget the moment of carelessness that had overtaken me when I had captured this thief. So be it.  
  
Another youngling came to stand at my side with fresh bandages and a small vial of salve in his slender hands. Nestadren the healer had obviously sent him to take care of my abused fingers. Grudgingly I wiped them across my tunic, frowning at the flow of fresh blood that this brought, and a murmured, "Don't do that please, Master Tanglinna. Your tunic is dirty and it might infect your fingers." I sighed, deciding that it wouldn't do to offend the one who had come to help me, so I meekly held out my right hand and allowed him to do his duty as Thranduil confronted the prisoner.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
It was never very fortunate to be noticed by some important commander; if such a worthy elf decided to give an actually very unimportant case his special attention, it could quickly turn into an example of how justice should be dealt according to the commander in question, and the noble desire to demonstrate righteousness and effectiveness hardly ever led to lenience. A king, however, was a thousand times worse than a mere high-ranking captain; if I was not very lucky - and I seldom was - I would be used to show how Mirkwood's ruler punished the wicked, and nobody would have any objections if I lost more than just a hand in the process. I was a stranger to them, simply a thief, not someone with a name and a face and a story to tell. I would have to be very careful - if anything could be saved at all, caution and modesty were more likely to help me than a bold defence. So my resolution to be the very model of a rueful and repentant thief was actually very firm.  
  
I still blame the king for what happened.  
  
It did not even start well. The king studied me in what he must have considered as a most kingly and dignified manner. I could have told this proud Sinda in his flamboyant armour that he did not even come close to Orodreth at his most regal, but for obvious reasons, I refrained from pointing this out to him.  
  
"The case seems obvious", he finally started, "so I wonder what you have to say in your favour, thief."  
  
"In which regard?" I asked - not meaning this as a defiant question, as I must state, but simply hoping that my noble interlocutor would choose to specify an accusation. I was ready to admit that I had stolen - but I would not incur the risk of confessing to more crimes than they accused me of by simply making a speech and hoping for the best now. I remembered far too late that using an honorific to address the king might not have been entirely wrong in this situation; perhaps this lack of a title was what incited him to misinterpret my words a little.  
  
"Getting fresh, is he?" he asked, his face turned towards the captain who inclined his head ever so slightly with an unbearable kind of amused and assenting smile on his handsome features. Addressing me again, the good and wise king went on, his voice far too ironic for my taste: "But perhaps, I am misjudging you, and you simply need some further explanation just in order to understand what I demand of you?"  
  
This provoked some muffled laughter from the warriors standing nearby and a half-hidden sneer from the captain; the king was apparently enjoying himself. All of this was already bad enough, for if they were having fun at my expense, and to this extent, although the bleak prospect I was facing should have left little room for laughter, I could hardly hope that anything I said or did would be of much use. Yet, I would have remained calm for prudence's sake - even if I could not make things any better, I could certainly make them worse - had not one warrior standing some steps away been bold enough to remark: "That may be more necessary than my king assumes - if that petty thief had enough brains to understand such a request, he would also be wise enough not to rob the dead, but since he obviously is not . . . ."  
  
The king had the bad sense to laugh at this, and this settled the matter. I fear what I did next did prove that their lack of appreciation for my wisdom was entirely too justified, and had I taken the time to think about it, I would have known that letting hurt pride get the better of me then and there was the most stupid thing I could do, for casting aside common sense, caution, and civility had gotten me into trouble more than one time.  
  
"It is most gracious of you to offer further explanation", I replied, "and it speaks highly of you that you are willing to admit that your demand was not too clearly phrased indeed. Go forth and explain."  
  
The captain stirred as if to take a step towards me, but the king's uplifted hand stopped him. Thranduil Oropherion would brook no intervention now; a miserable Noldo scoundrel was no match for him, and he would prove it - or so he thought.  
  
"If you dare to speak so boldly", he calmly said, pretending that such an insignificant quip could not insult or even anger a high and mighty king, "I am certainly mistaken when assuming that this brooch" - he pointed to the silver elm leaf that the captain was still holding - "found its way into your pocket by simple theft?"  
  
"I stole it from its dead owner," I answered.  
  
This ready confession was apparently not what the king had expected. Raising a brow, he surveyed me for a moment. "No heartrending story behind this to excuse your crime?" he enquired. "Will you not tell me that you are the father of three hungry elflings and finally had to steal because you lost house and wife in an orc-raid and could not think of another way of sustaining your family? I believe that is what is usually said in such cases."  
  
This time, their laughter almost hurt. What did they know of need and hopelessness, and what did this king know? I could have told him that I was the father of one hungry elfling, but mentioning Alagant - who was hopefully safe and far away from any wood-elves now! - would not have been very wise for many reasons and might have led to having to mention the others as well, as I did not wish to create the impression that I had left my child on his own somewhere near a battlefield . . . . So I simply replied: "There is no excuse."  
  
I was aware that I did not sound exactly remorseful, and so was the king. "Very well", he curtly said, apparently intent on getting over with this not exactly pleasant conversation quickly, "do you also admit to taking the cloak?"  
  
"I do."  
  
"To resisting arrest and wounding one of my warriors in the process?"  
  
It was then that I realized that, perhaps, not all hope of getting out of this mess again with only one hand, but with my head still where it belonged, was lost. "No."  
  
I had surprised the king again; he had not expected this development after I had shown myself so compliant.  
  
Before he had recovered from his astonishment, I went on: "I do admit that I wounded one of your warriors, but I was merely defending myself, and with good reason. There was no actual arrest. This warrior" - I sent a mildly accusing glance in his direction - "did not mention with any word that he was arresting me in the name of his king and under suspicion of a crime. He only asked who I was and then ordered me to lie down with my face to the ground, without precisely stating his intentions. I was not under the impression that this was a regular arrest or an arrest at all, but had to treat this as an attack on my person, especially since an arrow was aimed at me all the time. You must understand that, fearing for my very life, I did not have the leisure to enquire about his plans - so I chose to defend myself in the most promising way possible, and that is hardly a crime."  
  
There was silence for a moment; then, the king gave a highly derisive snort. "This is ridiculous!" he exclaimed. "You are not seriously telling me that you did not see a connection between your crime - a crime you admit to have committed! - and your arrest, even though you were still busy stealing when this warrior found you?"  
  
"You are in no position to prove the contrary", I replied.  
  
The king was not pleased that I was right; glowering at me, he snapped: "Your explanation is ridiculous and against all probability."  
  
"Yet you cannot disprove it", I restated, enjoying this one small triumph - doubtlessly the last before utter defeat would follow! - and barely able to keep myself from smirking at him.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*  
  
Thinking back to that morning, I was still amazed by how bold and brash this Noldo was. He was also lucky that Thranduil didn't have him gagged for the insolence and disrespect that he showed only too blatantly. It seemed there was only one thing to be done. Erebor was no place for this prisoner so he was to be shepherded to Mirkwood as quickly as possible with an escort of seven elves. I had the somewhat dubious pleasure of leading this expedition.  
  
Thranduil, who was not pleased with our prisoner any more than I was, had followed me to where I readied my few possessions for the journey home. As I was strapping Celair-Dagnir to my waist, he stood silently behind me. I know the thief's words had irritated him for he was not used to such ill handling, certainly not by someone not an intimate of his and one who was merely joking.  
  
"What do you make of him, Tanglinna?" he asked, watching as I threw some food into my pack. "Do you think you can make it back to the Hall without killing him?"  
  
"I cannot guarantee that, hir-nin," I said in jest. No, I would not kill him; I would never again kill another elf unless some dire circumstance presented itself. "He is rude," I continued yanking the ties on the pack shut. "He is desperate. He is. . . a Noldo." This last summed up my feelings quite well, for the word was spoken with distaste and sarcasm.  
  
Thranduil chuckled at this, plucking up a slim leather tube that had slipped from my bedroll. Tucked inside it was a picture of Celair my wife. I carried it with me always.  
  
"Need I remind you," he began, handing me the tube, "that your lady- wife was a Noldo, as was your mother."  
  
"It is not the same, hir-nin," I muttered, holding the curl of leather in my hand for a moment before slipping it into my tunic. I slung the pack over my shoulder, shrugging it into a comfortable position and looked at him, daring him to gainsay me.  
  
He chuckled again, the blue eyes bright and filled with mischief.  
  
"Keep a close watch on him," he cautioned, only half teasing. "You don't want to go rolling about on the ground among the rocks again." Listening to him laugh, I walked away to find my little group of elves and our prisoner. "If he tries to speak to me as he did to you," I called back to him, "he will be lacking a tongue to speak in his defense at his trial."  
  
I didn't mean that either, though I did glare fiercely at him as we started out, his hands bound tightly behind him with a long rope that ended in the hands of a young warrior named Laebrui.  
  
Actual arrest. . . indeed!  
  
Hours later as the sun disappeared in a blaze of crimson glory before us,we continued our westward trek toward Mirkwood. The journey thus far had not been unpleasant, though my companions were a bit merciless in their jesting with the prisoner. He seemed docile enough and surprisingly quiet after his impetuous words when standing before the king. But he had seemed docile enough when I had caught him lifting Lalven's cloak. These young warriors had thought they could jest with me about missing the cam-tehta. They were wrong.  
  
They told our ignorant prisoner that he would be lucky to merely loose his hand, for after his 'discussion' with the king he would likely be spider-fodder. They then went into great detail about the spiders' eating habits, discussing at length about how their prey was poisoned, wrapped in clinging webbing, left to dangle for hours slowly starving to death at times if forgotten for too long. I glanced at the prisoner, noting that he looked none too happy just now. I certainly would not be happy with this situation. Finally I barked at those young whelps to shut up or else they would find themselves fed to the spiders by me personally. I think they believed that I might actually do this, so they fell silent and we walked beneath the darkening sky until I decided that it was time to make camp.  
  
While the prisoner was made to sit upon the ground, guarded by Laebrui, who watched him like a hawk, the others began to cook a meal for us. I sent a couple of them into the night to do a perimeter check. Some of the goblins had fled in this direction during the battle, no doubt returning to their homes in or near Mirkwood, and I didn't wish to take any chances.  
  
I settled on the ground not too far from them, and pulled open the small pouch containing the things found in the prisoner's pockets. I admit I was curious about him. He looked half-starved and his clothing was ill fitting; and yet he had spoken to Thranduil with a measure of contempt and an air of superiority that I found perplexing as much as maddening. He was an oddity this Alagaith Alagaerion. Yes, I recalled his name.  
  
He did not have many things in his possession: flint, a small wooden case of needles for mending, a square of cloth, a small embroidered purse with a few copper coins. I was surprised for the embroidery was very skillful done, but then I realized that he must have stolen it from someone and I snorted, laying it on the ground before me with the other things. There was a lovely bone comb with delicate carvings that seemed more the thing a lady would carry. Stolen again, no doubt. The last thing was a toy warg carved of wood. I frowned at this, not quite knowing what to make of it, and lay it aside also. There was also the dagger, a small one, probably his only weapon. He had probably meant to steal a larger one at the battlefield.  
  
One weapon, a handkerchief, needles, flint, a stolen purse with little money, a lady's fancy comb, and a warg carving . . . he was indeed an enigma. I turned to look over at him. He was being remarkably quiet and I wondered if these young elves with their foolish, joking words had silenced him. Being a spider's dinner would not be a pleasant prospect.  
  
I ordered Laebrui to feed him as I would not risk loosing his hands, but when I glanced over at them midway through my own meal I could hear the quiet words Laebrui was saying to him, and the others, listening also, were snickering. Frowning I stood and moved to stand behind the young twit. The prisoner saw me, but Laebrui did not. I cleared my throat and he turned, startled. The others had fallen silent, knowing that I had reached the end of my patience with them and their idle chatter. Laebrui looked guiltily up at me, and had the grace to look embarrassed.  
  
"You have had enough fun. Now stay your wagging tongue or you may find that you no longer keep it in your mouth."  
  
The young elf nodded, and when I told him to go, he meekly handed me the rope that was bound to the prisoner and slouched away to join the others, who didn't say anything, knowing that if they did, and I heard them, they would be just as sorry as he was.  
  
I studied the Noldo for a moment, waiting for him to say something. He didn't, so I fed him in silence thinking that he must have been famished for it had been a hard forced journey, one that we wanted over quickly. Not that this Noldo wouldn't mind if it stretched into more days than the two or three it would take us. I almost felt sorry for him. I squeezed my fingers together, willing them to painfulness. I was slightly bemused to find that the stinging pain had subsided already. Shaking my head, I moved away from him and picked up his things, put them back into the pouch and then into my pack. Tomorrow was another long day of travel, so I set up the watches for the night, giving the last one before dawn to myself then settled on the ground, after making certain that one of the younglings on watch loaned his to the thief. It wouldn't do to freeze him to death before we reached the Hall.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
I had spent the entire day trying to figure out at what pace I had to walk in order to avoid being shoved forward roughly or being yanked back by the rope they had tied me to. According an almost ridiculous importance to these little things and focusing completely on them had kept me from losing myself in dark thoughts. I had even been almost grateful for the fact that I was bruised all over; the pain, while bearable, was sufficient to make me very aware of every movement I made and prevented me from thinking entirely too much.  
  
While my efforts to find the right pace had been useful for occupying my wayward mind at least for some time, they had not had any effect whatsoever in regard to the warriors guarding me. At the beginning, I had dared hope that they would simply leave me in comparative peace if I did not offer too much resistance, but I had been mistaken.  
  
There had been rather tasteless jesting going on all day, whether to punish me for my escape attempt and for my lack of respect towards their king or because they simply wanted to know what it would take to break me, I did not know. Perhaps their desire to hurt me was not even that great and they were only a little silly and thoughtless because they were glad that they could leave the dread battlefield and return home early, but I almost suspected that there was another reason for their rather inconsiderate behaviour.  
  
If there is one thing that can make people enjoy tormenting someone helpless a little - whether said helpless person has provoked that sort of treatment or not, and I had maybe done so - it is the sweet taste of the wee bit of power deriving from being in the superior position, if only for some time. Taunting and mocking someone seems like such a harmless way towards this lovely feeling, since it does not leave any outward marks and yet provokes such amusing effects.  
  
I would not have been surprised if this had been behind the young wood-elves' cruel little game. They had just emerged from a battle - perhaps even the first important one they had ever taken part in - more or less unscathed and doubtlessly felt like heroes, and yet, they were reminded quite mercilessly that they were there to obey and to show respect to their leader.  
  
He - by ill chance, the very same archer who had arrested me in the first place - was clearly not the sort of commander who knew to humor his subordinates. His reaction when someone mentioned the fact that he had apparently missed the cam-tehta on my wrist until the captain had discovered it was positively stupid, that is, exactly of the sort that would have invited further jesting had he not been in a position of authority, but an stern and unbending authority defended with entirely too many glares and threats. They certainly respected him, but it was a respect mixed with something bordering on fear. This observation did not please me.  
  
Truth to tell, nothing about this Tanglinna did please me too much, especially not the way he treated my possessions when we had stopped for the night and he had the leisure to contemplate what had been taken from my pockets. Although - or perhaps because - I was not exactly rich and did not own anything overly valuable in the material sense, I was foolishly attached to the few things I had, and especially to those I considered important enough to carry them in my pockets all the time.  
  
The good and righteous archer was very lucky that I was in no position to teach him some manners when he flung my purse to the ground with a dismissive snort after having looked at it with some curiosity for a moment. Agreed, I knew well enough that the thread I had used could have been of better quality, but nobody, not even that arrogant Silvan, could claim that the embroidery itself was less than neat and very tasteful, not even to mention that it had taken me countless hours to complete the work.  
  
If I had already been offended by this display of contempt, his disrespect for those two treasures dearest to me was almost painful to watch, though I was secretly glad that he did not give the comb too much attention; a name - the name of that comb's former owner - was daintily carved into the curves of one of the delicate vines decorating it, and I did not want him to spot it. People are remarkably curious about written things of all kinds, and he would most certainly have asked a question I did not want him to ask. As for my feelings when he simply cast aside the little carved warg with a frown, I would prefer not to describe them at all.  
  
But what had I expected? After the way our first encounter had gone, he had no reason to be overly pleased with me, and my. . . conversation with the king - not even to mention that I had used the opportunity to accuse him of having made a grave mistake - could not have endeared me to him overly much, either. True enough, he had intervened to stop the young warriors from going too far now and then, but I was not foolish enough to assume that he had been moved by compassion for me; he was careful not to give me another reason to justify an escape attempt now, that, combined, perhaps, with customary dutifulness, was all.  
  
He left my possessions lying on the ground all the time through dinner, and I did not like that, either; even if the things I had carried with me seemed like worthless stuff to him, they were dear to me, and I did not want anybody to step on them out of carelessness or to spite me. At least, they were generous with the food; it was almost a waste that they fed me so well if they really meant to put me to death sooner or later, but I was not going to tell them that I could exist on less.  
  
The night was worse than the day had been; I hardly slept, but lay awake, gazing up into the silent sky and finding little comfort in contemplating the stars.  
  
The warriors on watch were, of course, convinced they knew the reason for my wakefulness, and so word that fear kept me awake was passed on from watch to watch with jokes even worse than those I had been forced to listen to during the day; they knew very well that their leader was resting now and could not order them to stop. So they dwelt on the subject, and apparently, it was terribly amusing for them to tell each other in countless variations what a wretched coward I was.  
  
Afraid and worried I was indeed, but I could have laughed at these simple-minded wood-elves for assuming that my own fate scared me so. Having to expect the loss of a hand was frightening, of course, and so was the prospect of dying a shameful death, although I was not sure yet how serious they were about the spiders . . . .  
  
But what kept me awake was neither this fear for myself nor the uncomfortable position I lay in. Something important was missing; I had almost forgotten how to fall asleep without a warm little bundle snuggled against my left side, the side on which I still had an eye to watch over him. While sleeping next to Alagant could be slightly trying at times - he often ended up tangled in the blanket we should have been sharing all on his own some time during the night or decided that he was most comfortable in a position that involved using his father as a pillow - falling asleep without sensing him and knowing he was well was quite impossible.  
  
While I was more than glad that Alagant had not been with me today, being separated from him without being certain that he was safe was hardly any better than having him here with me would have been, and I was certain that he was not any happier than I was about my absence, and the others would not be happy either.  
  
The others. It was very late, and by now, they had to be certain that something had happened to me. My father would be pacing to and fro by now, pretending he did not wait for my return at all, but throwing furtive glances into the direction from which I could, perhaps, still appear; Half- Dead would fold his arms, wince a little when bending the left one that was a bit stiff, especially in the cold of the evening, and say: 'I do not wish to shatter your hopes, but pray do not delude yourself any further; he will not return any time soon.' Well-Armed would play with the end of a golden braid and make plans in silence; Seven, for his part, would be brooding (and probably sneezing and wiping his poor nose) for a long time before he would suddenly get up and declare that he was going to search for me, and while the others would try to restrain him, pointing out that it was far too dangerous especially for him to look for me now, that one of them could go instead or that it would be wiser to wait a little longer, Alagant would watch the scene with large worried eyes, understanding very well that something exceedingly bad had happened and sensing at the same time that the others were reluctant to tell him what exactly they suspected to be the cause of my prolonged absence.  
  
They would tell him if he asked, though, and he would ask; the question was only who would explain things to him. I would have preferred Well-Armed's smooth diplomacy, Half-Dead's compassion or Seven's instinctive knowledge how to comfort and reassure to my father's notorious confusing honesty with being blunt and almost brutal at times by far, but at the same time, I knew well enough that they would let him do the talking, acknowledging his right to speak first in such an important matter, since he was Alagant's closest living relative except for me.  
  
Alagant would be afraid and upset; I remembered only too well how unhappy he had been last winter when I had been wounded and probably much closer to finding myself in front of Mandos than I had wished to believe at that time . . . . But that had been a different sort of fear; he had been able to sit by my side, occasionally stroking my arm, and when I had been awake enough to do so, I had told him that all would be well again very soon. That had been better than utter uncertainty, uncertainty on both sides, for I could not know what had befallen him or the others either.  
  
Even if all of them had returned safely to the place where we had last seen each other, many things could have happened; it was perfectly possible that the wood-elves had decided to search the outskirts of the battlefield for other thieves after they had caught me or that warriors returning from the pursuit of Bolg's fleeing goblins had found our hiding place by chance, not even to mention that one or more of my friends could have gotten into serious trouble when searching for me . . . .  
  
Strange as it may sound, I did hope that they would not learn exactly where I had been taken; complete ignorance was quite the only thing that would deter them from any sort of rescue attempt, that, or the realization that there was not even the slightest hope of success. Suddenly, it seemed like a very good thing that my escort had chosen to travel so fast; as soon as I was safely locked up in a dungeon, they would probably be too wise to try anything, probably - I did not know for sure, but the time before we reached Mirkwood was definitely more dangerous. I could only pray that they would not try to ambush the warriors guarding me during the next days; a desperate attack of that kind would only have caused more harm. But surely Half-Dead and my father, who had both commanded warriors back at Nargothrond and knew how to estimate the enemy's strength, would be aware that three weary outlaws - for they simply could not leave Alagant alone, they could not! - would not stand a chance against these fine warriors of Mirkwood? It was really preferable to hope that they would not learn anything certain at all.  
  
Thus, I passed the night in thought, and the following day pretty much like the first one, walking in silence, observing my captors and listening to their lovely descriptions of hungry spiders, for, of course, the repeated reprimands had only made the warriors more cautious instead of deterring them completely. At least, this way of spending a day was tiring enough to make me drift into a few hours of uneasy sleep the following night, and when I woke on the third day, I did not believe it would be so very different from the first ones.  
  
Its first hours seemed to prove me right. The journey continued, as did the whispered taunts, even if they had become less frequent - less frequent, but not less wicked in the slightest, and this morning, they unfortunately found a way to provoke a reaction from me.  
  
"It is said that those spiders like the eyes of their victims best", a young warrior answering to the name of Nimdir innocently remarked, only too aware that their feared Master Tanglinna was walking at the front of the group, his attention occupied with more important things than a jesting youngling, "they always eat them first, shortly after they poison their prey. Won't they be disappointed that there will only be one eye for them to enjoy this time, Laebrui?"  
  
"Definitely", his companion called Laebrui replied, playfully jerking at the rope that held me and entirely too aware that I made an effort to stare straight ahead, "that is - if this thief really has only one eye. How can we know for sure?"  
  
"You are right", Nimdir observed, and although he was walking on my right side and I did not bother to turn my head, I knew he was studying me thoughtfully now, "that eye patch could only be there to rouse some pity."  
  
"We should make sure, just in case." Laebrui suggested.  
  
"Don't even think of it!" The words were out ere I could think twice about them, and I knew I had made a mistake even before I had finished speaking.  
  
"Ah", Nimdir remarked, "so the silent thief can still talk?"  
  
"Amazing!" Laebrui agreed, yanking at the rope yet again, this time slowing me down effectively. "But this does not solve the original problem, does it?"  
  
"No", the second warrior agreed, "but we shall just take a look and know whether our suspicion is right . . . ."  
  
The next moment, I felt his fingers touching my cheek entirely too close to my eye patch and recoiled, almost knocking over Laebrui who had moved to stand in my way. The two of them laughed, delighted that their efforts to annoy me had been rewarded with more than silence, and I knew I had lost; this first success would incite them to pursue their silly plan, probably quite unaware what they were doing to me. There was a reason I wore that eye patch. . . or had worn it, for in the next moment, it was in Laebrui's hand. At least, they looked impressed enough by what they had uncovered, but that was small wonder . . . .  
  
"You fools may wish to return that eye patch to its proper place right now," I said icily, fighting against my bonds in vain, not so much because I would have loved to strangle the two of them, but in order to lift a hand and cover the terrible scar from sight.  
  
"And you may wish to ask for that favour a bit more politely, thief!" Nimdir answered with an entirely too cocky grin.  
  
It was probably a very good thing that something interrupted our discussion just then.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*  
  
"What do you think you are doing?!" I barked, striding swiftly toward Laebrui and Nimdir, who started and turned to look at me with wide eyes, their fair faces flushed with surprise and guilt. "Well? That was not a rhetorical question and I expect an answer and quickly!"  
  
These foolish, thoughtless younglings were most fortunate that our prisoner was bound securely or I might have let him throttle them for their insolent cruelty. They at least had the good graces to look ashamed of what they had done, but if they thought that this would soften my heart toward them, they were very wrong.  
  
"The journey is nearly at an end, and I want no more of this! You, Laebrui will scout ahead. And no! You Nimdir will take rear guard. I don't want to see either of you near the prisoner again. I also do not wish to see you speaking alone together. Is that understood?"  
  
They nodded somewhat reluctantly, and Nimdir, looking shamefaced indeed, handed me the eye patch, his gaze on the ground, fair cheeks painted scarlet with embarrassment. Then they moved away, slowly and not looking at one another. I hoped they realized their mistake, but I wondered.  
  
I drew a deep breath to steady myself; the anger that I felt was still washing over me in cold waves, partly at the careless, callous behaviour of those two younglings but mostly at myself for not curbing this behaviour before. Apologies never came easily to me, even when I know I am the one at fault, and I knew this apology would probably fall on deaf ears as well. Why should this Noldo believe that I was sorry for what had transpired? There was no reason why he should. My behaviour toward him had not exactly been felicitous. I drew another breath and looked up at him.  
  
"May I replace this?" I asked in a low voice, my eyes touching but not lingering upon the scar that marred his face where he had lost his eye. His other eye was as dark as a storm cloud and held just as much potential violence. "Please allow me this."  
  
He nodded curtly and I gently slipped the soft dark cloth back into place. I dropped my gaze uncomfortably. Elves do not scar easily, and I knew what he must be feeling if only to a certain extent.  
  
Unbidden, my hand crept up to touch my chest. Even after all this time, I was still uncomfortable with my own scar that marked me from breastbone to groin. It was easy enough to hide it beneath clothing, unlike his which was accentuated by the cloth covering it, drawing one's attention to it immediately.  
  
"I am sorry," I murmured, knowing that words would be inadequate, yet they were all I had to offer. I glanced slowly up at him. "There is no excuse for what they did. The blame is mine entirely. They will not trouble you again. This I promise. I wish . . . ." What did I wish? That I could undo it? Yes, but that was impossible. What is done is indeed done and no wish on my or anyone else's part could change it. Wish that I had never seen him? Yes, that as well. I wish I could have turned a blind eye to his thieving when I had a chance, but I had not. No, things would progress from here. "I am sorry," I finished, feeling very unsatisfied with what I had spoken, but not truly knowing how to offer more.  
  
He would be my responsibility from now on, this I knew. I immediately gave orders and soon we were moving out, heading once more toward home. If we were fortunate we would be there very soon, and I admit that I was quite glad that the end of this tiresome and most troublesome journey was in sight.  
  
We moved out at a brisk pace, as brisk as our prisoner would allow, being fettered by his bindings as he was. I knew he wasn't happy; indeed I could scarcely blame him . . . this Alagaith Alagaerion. I frowned as this flitted through my mind as he stumbled along before me, the rope held not too loosely in my hand. I did not want to think of him as a person with a name, a family, but I did. That was a mistake. If one can hold oneself distant from a situation, it is easier to handle the situation. I had lost a bit of the battle when I thought of him - only once, but once was enough - as a person. I should have set someone else to the task of replacing the eye patch; I had become to close to the personal aspect of this situation when I did this . . . when I felt pity and sympathy for him.  
  
Muttering, I cursed him and his lost eye and the scar left behind. He was a thief, a robber of the dead. And, more importantly, he was a Noldo. I held this to me as we continued along, the scents of the forest reaching us: rich deep odours of moulds and leaves, grass and wildness. Yes, home. I smiled then, loosing myself in thoughts of our return. It is good to go home, to leave the war behind. Thranduil would be setting out very soon from Erebor if he hadn't departed already. We would have feasting then, with many toasts and remembrances to honour our fallen. It would be a time for sorrow, but also for great rejoicing as the dragon was dead and would trouble us no more.  
  
We made good progress until Laebrui came running back, his face intense.  
  
"Goblin tracks," he informed us, telling of the signs he had spotted just ahead. I quickly sent the others off - my first mistake - to track the goblins, hoping that they had not gone to ground yet. If they had, there would be no way to find them without wasting a great deal of time and energy - neither of which we had. Yet I did not want them to come upon us unaware, as our number was so small and with a bound prisoner to hamper us.  
  
Then I made my second mistake. I decided to take another track, a round about way in hopes of avoiding any goblins while I guarded the prisoner. I pushed him before me as we made our way into the forest, my ears straining for any suspicious sounds. I knew the prisoner was not pleased with our accelerated pace, but I felt that the sooner we were away from here, where there were small rocky outcroppings, the buried reaches of the mountains where Thranduil's Hall lay, many miles away yet - too far to expect any aid - and too much tangled undergrowth. In short, there were too many places for the beasts to hide.  
  
What happened next might have been - as he said - an accident. The ground was uneven and he was walking with his hands bound behind him up the incline, so it might have been through no fault that he stumbled and fell, nearly pulling me down with him. I did not believe this, for I felt that he was still too resentful toward us - and toward me in particular, I would guess - to not take any chance he could to trip me and hopefully make good an escape. He could easily succeed in this area, but I was more on guard than I had been on the battlefield. Needless to say, words were exchanged, rather heatedly. It put me in a wonderful mood . . . .  
  
The second time it happened -yes, there was a second time - he pulled forward - quite deliberately - as he fell, and we went down, and down, and down, for the incline was more steeply slanted than I had first thought it. Of course, I had no reason before now to contemplate its angle of ascent - or perhaps I should say descent.  
  
I should have let go of the rope, but I fear that my stubbornness won out and I gripped it all the more tightly. This only served to entangle me in the rope as we continued to bounce downward - rather painfully. There was not just a 'bit' of an incline as I had said, but too much of one for we were now rolling in an entirely uncontrolled manner; small rocks embedded in moss and grasses were bruising and battering us as we tumbled down the hill. It is nearly impossible to stop one's fall down such a hill, but I found myself trying to grasp at any object that presented itself. Nothing obliged and the next thing I knew we were falling - the rope had entangled us inextricably together - only now there was nothing beneath us! We were swallowed by sudden darkness and falling into the unknown. The ground had vanished and we were surrounded by chill air.  
  
My one thought in this direst moment of unknown peril was,  
  
~It is all his fault!! ~  
  
~*~*~*~*~*  
  
The archer did surprise me. It was not that he scolded those careless younglings - since they had acted against his explicit orders of stopping their jesting and taunting, that was what he had to do - and not even that he came close to showing something like pity for me once they were gone. No, those things did not surprise me - but the fact that he actually asked for my consent before he placed my eye patch where it belonged did, and even if I only answered him with a curt nod, his consideration did not fail to touch me a little.  
  
Usually, a robber of the dead stops being a person as soon as he has been arrested for his atrocious crime. His captors will grudgingly admit that he is a living creature that needs to be fed, and on occasion, they may even decide that he deserves the privilege of being talked to instead of merely being shoved around, but they will never acknowledge that this disgusting creature is their equal in some respects. His right to be treated like an elf seems forfeit; small cruelties that would be frowned upon if anyone else was the target are suddenly allowed, and asking for the wicked thief's permission to do something that might be unpleasant to him is unnecessary, even ridiculous.  
  
But Tanglinna did ask, and the same fingers that I had cut some days before replaced the eye patch as gently and respectfully as if they were not touching a mere prisoner who did not deserve much courtesy, but someone helpless who was entitled to be treated with kindness, a wounded fellow warrior, maybe.  
  
For a moment, I felt ashamed; while it was of some comfort to see the two young fools' insolence amended by such thoughtfulness and tact, I felt I did not quite deserve it from him. I had slashed his fingers, and I had criticized, almost ridiculed, him in front of his king, thus hurting him twice for doing what had not been more than his duty when he had found me stealing from one of his fallen comrades - and yet, he was friendly now, although nobody would have blamed him if he had decided that some humiliation and anguish would serve the troublesome prisoner right.  
  
I should have thanked him, but all words of gratitude died on my lips with sheer astonishment when he went on: "I am sorry."  
  
Had he just apologized to me? He obviously had, and he rambled on rather uncomfortably for a few moments, apologizing yet again and even promising to make sure that those young warriors would not harass me again. Oddly enough, he sounded quite sincere. Perhaps I had misjudged him earlier when I had only noticed his obvious lack of diplomacy, his fierceness, his contempt for me.But he had not sounded contemptuous just now.  
  
This gave me something to think about while we travelled on, entering the woods these elves called their home and probably already close to our destination. Strange as it may sound, I was almost grateful that the journey would be over soon. I was not exactly looking forward to the trial, the punishment that would follow and the long days I would spend imprisoned, but all of that was quite predictable, and nothing they could do to me would make me feel quite as helpless and humiliated as the thing Laebrui and Nimdir had done.  
  
I could have laughed at my own silliness; no actual damage had been done to me, and losing a hand would certainly be worse in every sense. Yet, by removing the eye patch, those two fools had not only uncovered the scar of an old wound received in battle. Had it only been that, I might have been furious about their lack of respect, but their deed would not have hurt me quite as much.  
  
But this scar was more than a grim souvenir of a battle long past. By ill chance, the day I had received that wound had also been the day that had forced me to become an outlaw, and just like the blow of an orcish scimitar had ruined a once more or less pleasing face, the other things that had happened that day had ruined the elf I had been until then. I could joke about the cam-tehta now and then, but about this scar, never.  
  
Due to this, I was quite grateful that Tanglinna kept his promise. He had taken the rope that bound me, and although he held it in a firm grip, allowing me less freedom of movement than young Laebrui's playing with the rope had done, walking on like this, and in silence, was preferable to the young warriors' merciless jesting.  
  
The archer did not remain as kind and compassionate as he had been for that one strange moment. A short time after we had resumed our journey, he was already muttering curses at me again, as if to make clear to me that momentary pity was not to be confused with lenience. Perhaps he suspected that I would try to take advantage of him if his benevolence prevailed, but if he did, he was misjudging me in turn - but admittedly, I had not given him reason to think too highly of me until now. Why should he have believed that his unexpected kindness had made me more compliant - at least for some time! - than all threats and harsh words could have done? I would not repay his sympathy with causing him more trouble than necessary, but, again, how should he have known? A thief - and least of all one who was not above stealing from the dead on the battlefield - had no honour, and consequently no sense of honour either, as simple as that.  
  
We had already travelled for quite some time when the goblin tracks were discovered. Needless to say, my captors were not very pleased, but I was quite thrilled, though I tried not to show it. Foolish as such a thought may seem, I almost hoped that we would meet the goblins, and that the wood-elves would be outnumbered by them, for this could have been a chance to escape. If a fight occurred, and the goblins won it, I would probably be able to talk my way out of the situation. Being fluent in at least one dialect of Orcish can be very helpful at times, and even if all negotiations fail, the mere fact that an elf is able to use that language normally unknown to those of his kind is likely enough to spare the elf in question from being killed on the spot. If you do not believe me, imagine an orc addressing you in flawless Sindarin; the effect is very much the same if roles are reversed.  
  
Alas, my precious hopes were shattered almost immediately. My archer was a cunning old warrior who would not take any risks, and what he did - sending the others after the goblins and leading me towards their king's Hall on a less dangerous, if more strenuous path, if a path it could be called - was the wisest thing he could do, but even if I understood this, I was not pleased, not only because the faint shred of hope had been reduced to nothing in a matter of minutes. It was not very agreeable to be pushed forward as if we were already running for our very lives and not simply making a detour to avoid meeting the goblins.  
  
Perhaps I could have kept up with the pace Tanglinna seemed to expect if we had been on a flat stretch of land and in the open, but in the wooded, rocky hills we were in, I could only walk with some difficulty. Bound tightly as I was, it was hard to keep my balance all the time, so it was hardly surprising that I finally stumbled and fell when we were hurrying up a steep slope.  
  
If I had assumed that even my captor would understand that no ill will had been involved, I had been very mistaken. Ere I had quite recovered from the fall, I was roughly yanked to my feet again and found myself face to face with a very enraged archer, a glare of blazing silver eyes piercing me to the core.  
  
"I do not understand how someone so clumsy has managed to survive so long!" he snarled. "This was a rather sorry excuse for an escape attempt, Noldo! - Walk on now, or I shall make you."  
  
Had I known him any better, I would have known that his own unease added a lot to his anger at that moment and made him a little unjust, but I was not aware of that; instead, I felt fairly angry myself.  
  
After what had happened earlier that day, I had truly meant to be more or less compliant, and although being driven across rocks and tree roots, uphill and downhill, had been trying, I had not complained with a single word, but had shown as much good will as possible - only to be treated like this now? Oh, I believed to understand now what all his friendly words and great gestures hours ago had been about! We had not been all alone, after all - what I had mistaken for sincerity and kindness had, in fact, only been another stroke added to the carefully painted picture of the irreproachable, oh-so-admirable Master Archer who would not brook any disobedience, but would, of course, be generous and polite with a helpless prisoner if nothing was at stake, simply because it would add to his own glory.  
  
"You do mistake this accident for an - escape attempt?" I snapped back, and, putting all disdain I could come up with into my next words, I added: "This shows that there is little or no room for thoughts besides all the conceit in the tiny brain of the silver peacock that you are!"  
  
His eyes narrowed dangerously at this, and the next moment, I felt grabbed by the front of my tunic and pulled rather too close to my captor. "And what would a skulking cutpurse like yourself know of about having any thoughts in his own corrupted brain?" he asked, pushing me away again and almost tearing the fabric of the garment that had not been of the very best quality even when it had still been new. "Move!"  
  
And move I did, taking a few quite innocent steps, but then falling again, well aware that he would not let go of the rope he held and consequently fall as well. I admit it was petty revenge, the silly, childish wish to see him on the ground as well, perhaps a few twigs caught in his perfect braid, and a few bruises added to his body to make him realize how uncomfortable the pace he made us travel at could actually be, but - I swear that I never intended to cause what actually happened.  
  
We fell, not only to the ground, but down the incline in a frightening tumble that could not be stopped any more, and I expected us to crash into some tree or large rock at any time, but this did not happen. Down and down we went, meanwhile both helplessly entangled in the rope and tied together, bound to share whatever fate we were going to meet at the end of this fall - that suddenly did turn into a real fall straight down, for there was a crack in the hillside that neither of us had been aware of before, a deep crack, but not bottomless. We made a hard landing, and it still seems like a miracle to me that no bones were broken.  
  
There was a long moment of stunned silence; then, I swore in Quenya. He had landed on top of me again, of course.  
  
TBC 


	5. Chapter 4 In A Hole In The Ground There...

Once again, Alagaith places a pile of reviews on the table in front of Tanglinna.  
  
"Look at these, Mordil! kingmaker has a special request this time - he asks for an 'autographed copy of "Tanglinna's Art of Cursing"'. Giving the Master Archer a look of mock reproach, he adds, almost sounding hurt, but hiding a grin, "And you never even told me you had written a book!"  
  
Tanglinna shoots a scathing glance at the Noldo, then smiles and tips his head. "Didn't I tell you? I am the utmost authority on cursing, my dear, Linlote. Surely you have discovered that by now! I shall indeed send you a copy of my book on cursing, kingmaker, inscribed and autographed especially for you. And yes, elvish curses are much more melodious than those in French, regardless of what Merovingian says. The best curses are those in Quenya...very beautiful, though if you want something to sound particularly foul then you must use Orcish or Dwarvish."  
  
The expert's advice makes Alagaith chuckle. "That opinion only proves that you don't know *all* Quenyan curses, my dear Mordil . . . ." he remarks. "But then, I should not say such things, since kingmaker claims that you do not get enough respect anyway!" Admittedly, this thoughtful remark would sound a lot more serene if Alagaith refrained from grinning.  
  
"Obviously I do not! It is bad enough that I can admit my failings, but to have others keep pointing them out. . . ." Tanglinna replies, glaring at the troublesome one-eyed thief. "Some of us do garner no respect at all. Look at what kingmaker did to poor Haldir in that last story of his! His poor hair! I do sympathize with that!" This is accompanied by a second glare, and the Master Archer's elegant hand moves to his hair, which is still intact . . . for the present.  
  
Alagaith frowns a bit. "We need not talk about elven hair being cut off just now, do we? We had better change the subject! Look at this!" He suddenly laughs "Ptath has 'interesting' plans for us - apparently, it would be 'most interesting' if you became my prisoner . . . . Well, I have to agree, Ptath - that would be 'interesting' indeed!"  
  
"No, we will not discuss authors who like to cut the hair off their captive elves. . . ." Tanglinna agrees. Glancing at Alagaith, he continues: "I don't believe I shall become you prisoner, Linlote, and I don't think that Thranduil would be too overly pleased if that were to happen . . . at least I should hope not! Regardless of how funny you seem to think it would be. I fear that we had an "interesting" time anyway . . . . Unfortunately. . . . As Phoenix Flight says, 'the plot thickens'. Hmph! At every turn it seems!" This discovery does not seem to please the valiant archer; he folds his arms over his chest, looking slightly uncomfortable.  
  
Alagaith grins again. "Oh, yes, we have finally 'gotten ourselves into trouble', as Hel remarks - as if I had not been in trouble before! But this is an interesting question - would you have let me escape if you had noticed the cam-tehta earlier?" Turning to Tanglinna, he raises an eyebrow.  
  
"You have to ask?" Tanglinna retorts, raising one brow in return; but then, he grins. "Hel has also raised an interesting point. Just WHY did you confront Thranduil that way? Surely you were taught better manners than that!"  
  
The more or less well-mannered Noldo laughs. "That was hardly a question of manners . . . JastaElf says that I 'mustn't mock' Thranduil - but Thranduil should also remember that he mustn't mock me, either, even though he is king . . . ."  
  
"Hm . . . .I suspect he wouldn't view it quite that way, my dear Linlote." Tanglinna - doubtlessly not only an authority on cursing, but also on stubborn kings - informs him. "You have probably heard that Wood-elves are rather dangerous and not quite as wise as you Noldor are and Thranduil may be a Sinda, but is a Wood-elf at heart. It is not wise to rouse his wrath." Dismal as this admonition may sound, it does not keep him from laughing. "He certainly didn't expect to see such disrespect from someone like you, I fear. Tree says to tell JastaElf that she should visit the southern end of Delaware some day. It is much nicer 'south of the Canal'." He frowns a bit. "Hm . . .my manners were decidedly lacking as well", he admits, hanging his head. "I am very sorry that I wasn't nicer to your belongings, Linlote." He keeps his head down, else the slight mischievous gleam in his eyes might show. "I have been thoroughly chastened, it seems", he adds and hopes that he is hiding the slight smirk on his face as well. 'It seems that Lutris thinks you were brave to confront Thranduil in that bold manner."  
  
"Rather stupid than brave, I fear." Alagaith confesses, shaking his head a little. "But apparently, Lutris also liked my thoughts about Alagant . . . .So did Miss Aranel, it seems! And she is very right - being separated from him under those circumstances was not pleasant at all."  
  
Tanglinna smiles slightly at this. "Yes, it must be most difficult to sleep without that sweet elfling at your side. Miss Aranel is rather astute really. We, meaning the majority of us, do have the tendency to not see criminals as real people with feelings and needs and dreams like the rest of us. Perhaps there is a lesson in that, eh, my Skulking Cutpurse?" He grins at Alagaith, who smiles a bit in return.  
  
"Perhaps - but, thankfully, you are not 'the majority of us'." he replies. "The evil witch queen is right - I should be grateful, for, yes, you did 'a lot more than just stop the teasing of a few elflings'." With a sudden grin, he continues: "And I am also grateful that less torture than this worthy reviewer suspects was involved in what happened!"  
  
Tanglinna laughs at this remark. "Don't you think we suffered enough though? I think the evil witch queen should take pity on us two helpless elves!" He chuckles delightedly before he goes on: "She needs to get together with Uglash. She could give him some pointers!" Stating this, he winks at the evil witch queen. "It seems, Linlote", he proceeds, "that kingmaker isn't the only one to think that you might make an interesting lawyer. Kal the Magnificent thinks rather like you do, it would appear. 'Loop-holes and getting around things'. But what on earth does she mean she was bleeding all over the carpet?" A look of concern enters his face.  
  
Alagaith looks somewhat worried as well. "Perhaps Uglash paid her a visit?" he suggests. "I do not hope so! But in any case, she must have recovered, at least a little, if she can invite us to have tea with her! And she wants us to bring Legolas and Glorfindel and Nifgelir and his most unfortunate comrade. That will be an interesting tea party! Speaking of that - Venyatuima invites us as well, and so does Dis Thrainsdotter! If I had known that telling a simple story gets you so many invitations, I would not have had so many difficulties in making a living these past few ages... It is truly amazing!"  
  
"It is indeed!" Tanglinna agrees. "How very kind of them! But then as LeggoMyLegolas40 said, our story is great! I suppose that is because we are 'fascinating' as daw the minstrel calls us." He smiles a bit peacockily. "Or stubborn, as Lutris calls me. Or touching as she calls you. Or perhaps it is because I am 'misunderstood' as mekareQ points out or vindictive as she calls you. Yes, Linlote. You must be kind to me!" He grins rather cheekily.  
  
Alagaith laughs "I will try to be kind to you, then. But that might not please Phoenix23531 whose 'darker side delighted in the discomfiture of all characters'. And apparently, you are expected to take revenge for all those highly inappropriate smirks you received from everybody! So, what do you plan, Mordil?"  
  
The archer frowns a bit, then looks entirely too innocent and perplexed. "Why do people think that I would plot revenge for the slights heaped upon my person? I am the nicest elf that anyone could want to meet. Thoughts of revenge never enter my head at all." He blinks so innocently that this statement simply must convince everybody. "'Poor elfie' is quite an accurate description indeed, WeaselyTwinsLover1112. And since you asked so innocently if you could kiss my fingers...you may." With this, he grins triumphantly at Linlote and is rewarded with an unnerving Noldorin smile.  
  
"You are very lucky, Mordil", the thief says. "But then, you have to suffer so very much in this chapter that you deserve some hugs and kisses of the more harmless sort for being so very brave!" He winks at Tanglinna, who glowers slightly at this.  
  
"Exactly what are you implying?" he enquires. "No, do not tell me. I don't want to know. It seems that you and I will have to work all those lovely invitations into our schedule, Linlote. And we will bring the Dorwinion, Dis Thrainsdotter. I am sure that Thranduil won't mind sparing a bottle or two . . . or three." This assumption is accompanied by a highly suspicious grin.  
  
Alagaith shakes his head once again. "And you dare call *me* a 'skulking cutpurse'!" he mutters.  
  
"I was going to ask him . . . after the fact," Tanglinna replies with a chuckle.  
  
"A brilliant plan indeed," Alagaith scoffs. "You realize that it is hardly surprising that you have found yourself in Thranduil's dungeons for more than one time? If you go ahead with your Dorwinion plan, I shall have to do the reviewer responses all alone next time, since you will be down there yet again!  
  
But on with the story now."  
  
Chapter 4 - In A Hole In The Ground There Lived A . . . Trio Of Goblins ? ? ?  
  
It might have been preferable if the moment of stunned silence I mentioned had lasted a little longer. Admittedly, lying still and waiting for a miracle to happen would not have saved us either, but what Tanglinna did made things even worse. At first, he did not even talk; he was probably too flustered to realize that coordinating our actions a little would have been quite the only chance to end our predicament. To be honest, I must admit that I did not say a word either; but then, I was caught between the stone floor and a wriggling and kicking archer who tried to get rid of the rope tying us to one other, and that may explain why I lacked the breath to speak.  
  
After a short while, the troublesome elf on me - I had not expected him to be that heavy, but how should I have known, or why should I even have thought about it? - apparently reached the conclusion that his efforts would not get him anywhere. We were hopelessly entangled in the rope.  
  
He seemed to think hard for a moment and finally met my gaze, a thing we had avoided until then, both uncomfortable with the forced closeness our fall had brought about. "You must let go of my right arm!" he hissed.  
  
I almost laughed at this request. I could not simply 'let go' of his arm, since I did not actually hold it; by some strange joke of fate, it had only found its way behind and, given our current position, under me, so that we lay in an involuntary embrace that could not simply be ended - I was pressed to the ground by Tanglinna's weight and lay on his arm in turn while the rope prevented us from moving apart at will.  
  
"We could try to get up, at least . . . ." I suggested, unsure whether we would manage to get to our feet at all; it would have taken a good deal of coordination and strength of will to do so, but disentangling the rope might have been easier if we had been standing.  
  
This brilliant plan provoked a derisive snort from the archer. "Simply turn left!" he ordered.  
  
I did try to turn left indeed, but was quickly stopped by Tanglinna's yell: "Left, I said! Can you not even tell left from right? Valar! Why does that even surprise me?"  
  
"Be more precise the next time and tell me if you mean 'left' from your or from my position!" I snapped back. "But that should not surprise me, either . . . . Phrasing things clearly is apparently not the forte of you Wood-elves!"  
  
For a single moment, I was very grateful for our peculiar situation; if Tanglinna had been able to move, he would certainly have tried to throttle me. Like this, however, he could only glare, and so he did.  
  
"Your common sense should have told you that I meant 'left' from my position!" he finally growled. "Now turn!"  
  
This difficult manoeuvre was never executed for it was then that we heard the voices. I believe it was only then that we fully realized that we had not fallen into some natural cave, although the fact that caves of that kind usually do not have a well-swept, even stone floor should have warned us earlier.  
  
The voices were drawing nearer quickly, and I soon realized that their owners were conversing in Eastern Orcish - and had obviously noticed our arrival in this place.  
  
"It cannot have been an animal, not even a large spider", the first voice stated when the two speakers were close enough for me to understand their words. "I am sure I heard voices!"  
  
"Voices!" the second voice repeated with a good deal of derision. "Nothing bright enough to speak would come crashing down into the hole like this!"  
  
"It is well hidden if you come walking downhill, so if they were inattentive enough, they may have missed it."  
  
"And I tell you 'they' are nothing but a rock that was loosened or a frightened deer fleeing from hunting elves."  
  
The voices were very near now, and suddenly, there was silence, followed by astonished laughter.  
  
Turning my head towards the noise with an effort, I saw two goblins, clad like prosperous merchants, who had stopped dead at the somewhat unusual sight that presented itself to them.  
  
"Now look at this, Uglash", the first goblin, clad in dark brown and wearing his hair in an austere knot, finally said, shaking his head in bewilderment, "frightened deer indeed! Who would do us that special sort of favour?"  
  
"Those charming elves themselves, I believe!" Uglash, taller than his companion and wearing sombre green robes, replied after studying us with what I mistook for sheer amusement at that time.  
  
But then, I was mistaken in many ways, for as soon as I had heard the name of 'Uglash', I had come to the conclusion that we did not have to fear much, for without ever having met either of them before, I believed I knew who these goblins were.  
  
'Uglash' was not an especially common name, probably because it translated to 'trout', and the number of people who decide to name their child after a slippery fish or after their favourite sort of dinner is rather limited even among orcs, regardless of what we elves like to believe about them.  
  
To be precise, there was only one Uglash I had ever heard about, and what I knew about him let me hope the best, for he was one of three shrewd goblin merchants who more or less dominated the brandy trade in this area and were also rumoured to engage less laudable activities, such as Dorwinion smuggling, without ever having been caught committing an actual crime.  
  
I have said 'the brandy trade', not 'the brandy trade among goblins', and the statement is to be understood in the general manner this distinction indicates indeed. We like to assume that the different races do not have many dealings with each other, especially if orcs and elves are concerned, and it is true indeed that a noble orc-lord would not buy from an elven merchant or that a highborn elven warrior would be loath to become the customer of an orcish trader; but it is equally true that the two aforementioned merchants would not hesitate to buy from each other if it was in their interest and as long as there was an intermediary of an innocuous race, a human or a dwarf, for example, and if it was not for decorum, they could probably do without an intermediary of that sort.  
  
But do not worry - I am not going to bore you for a long time with whatever scant insight into the customs of honest merchants I have! The only thing I wish to point out is that merchants - or mercenaries, or beggars, or thieves - in brief, all those who travel, meet many strangers and are more concerned with the contents of their purse than with honour and righteousness, are less prejudiced than the high and mighty lords, the noble warriors in their service and the poor peasants who know little more about those strange races dwelling afar than what they have been told by somewhat biased grandparents.  
  
Therefore, the discovery of who these goblins probably were did please me; talking to them and convincing them that we were harmless would be easier than persuading a group of orc warriors to let us go. or so I thought.  
  
Uglash's companion shook his head again. "What a strange accident!" he remarked. "I wonder how they have done that."  
  
I was about to open my mouth and explain the whole matter to him, planning to ask them politely to remove the rope (and, please, my bonds as well) when the arrival of a third goblin stopped me; taking into account that I lacked certain information at that point and might have acted somewhat rashly, this was probably a very good thing.  
  
This third goblin was quite a sight to behold, and I admit that, for a moment, I must have stared at him rather blankly, unsure what to make of him.  
  
Where to start? There were, of course, his clothes - and what clothes they were! It was not only that, in regard to their cut, they were not exactly typical of what the goblins of these parts considered fashionable. That strange melange of goblin taste, elven style and a whimsical individualism could still have been explicable, but combined with the expensive materials, the colours - black and dark red brightened by flashes of white where a silken shirt's cuffs and collar showed - the lavish embroidery on cloak and sleeves and the jewelled cloak clasp that looked as if it was worth half a village gave this goblin such an air of flamboyance that it was hard to tell whether to be impressed or to find him slightly ridiculous.  
  
I was almost inclined to favour the latter opinion, for in addition to the aforementioned indescribably clothing, our new acquaintance also used some sort of flowery perfume, and I did not really want to know with what kind of scented oil he had treated his hair with.  
  
But the most remarkable thing about this goblin was that he stared at Tanglinna as if he had never seen an elf before.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*  
  
Once upon a time in the greenwood realm of Thranduil Oropherion there was the most perfect day that one could imagine, and..  
  
THIS WAS NOT IT!!!!  
  
What had I done? What vile, heinous act had I committed that I was being punished in this manner? Even the most unforgivable criminal would be treated with more mercy than this!  
  
Lying bruised and battered at the bottom of some hole, inextricably bound to this . . . this . . . this Noldo, who did not even look overly distressed by our most precarious situation . . .and then the sound of voices . . . voices that were speaking some form of . . . Orcish. Of course, it would be Orcish. Why should it have been anything but Orcish? Perfect!  
  
I stared down at the Noldo, wondering if perhaps he had hit his head too hard when we landed and had lost what wits he had. He had turned his head toward the voices, and I did the same, twisting slightly to glance over my shoulder - we were in a most uncomfortable position. I knew what I would see: goblins or orcs, armed to the teeth and that would be the end of it . . . if we were fortunate. If we weren't . . .well, they would not take me without a fight!  
  
You may imagine my surprise when I first caught sight of them. They were not dressed as they were supposed to be! No weapons of any sort were in sight, no daggers, swords, pikes, clubs, whips, no vicious spiked armor . . . nothing! Their clothing was. . . they looked like the wealthy merchants of Dale! I could not prevent my astonishment from showing as they stared down at us.  
  
Though they dressed in a manner I had never thought of goblins dressing in, giving them an air of civility that I would not have thought to give goblins credit for, I still did not like the look in the tall ones' eyes at all. They may dress like they were sophisticated traders or merchants, but they were goblins beneath those fancy robes, and it showed all too clearly in that one's eyes. It was a look of sheer fell amusement.  
  
A shudder passed through me as the smaller one spoke, for the tone in that one's voice was all the evidence I needed to know what our fate would be. And though I could not understand most of what was said - my knowledge of the Orcish tongue being mostly confined to curses and the like - I could tell by their gazes and the inflection of the words that our time here wasn't going to be short or even relatively painless . . . . I hazarded a glance at the Noldo to see if he had regained his wits. He had not. He looked . . . calm . . . *too* calm, I would almost say he looked relieved. How could that be? He must truly have had his brains rattled beyond repair. I felt a pang of guilt about that for I doubted these goblins would spare him the torture I was sure was to come merely because he was addle-pated.  
  
But then . . . .  
  
There is a saying that just when you think things cannot get any worse, they do. I am here to testify that this saying is, unfortunately, most true.  
  
Two goblins were bad enough, though I thought that given a chance we, well *I* -since the poor Noldo would be of no help with his head injured as it was - could easily overcome them. I knew that they would take my bow and my sword, as those two weapons were obvious to see and to get at, but to take my dagger they would have to unbind us, and well . . . I would take advantage of those few precious seconds to act. Don Gwaedh was well acquainted with the taste of goblin blood and a few more drops would be spilled on the floor before they knew what was happening, giving us the chance to flee. To where would we flee? I had no idea, but that seemed that least of our worries at the moment.  
  
That was when things got worse . . . .  
  
It is here that I must confess, rather shamefully and reluctantly, that I . . . I panicked. Do not think me cowardly for I am not normally overcome with such ill befitting emotions as this and certainly not in life- threatening situations. If it had merely been a third goblin joining the merry little party, what happened next would have been quite different. Three are not much worse than two. But it was not merely a 'third goblin' that joined the first two. It was . . . 'Him' . . . .  
  
I had heard the nearly silent footfalls on the stone, and thought that yes, more goblins. Not surprising really, that only meant that I would have to be quicker to act before any more showed up. Then the somewhat overpowering scent of perfume filled the chamber announcing the third one's arrival. It was this scent, rather pleasant but cloying, that sent the first trickle of dread down my spine. I had smelled this before and there was only one person that I associated with it . . . . 'Him' . . . . Gurshak . . . .  
  
And then he was there, the light from the lamps glistening in his long dark hair. Lamps. . . . I had failed to see them before though they lined the hallway that we had landed in, for this was no mere hole in the ground but an underground dwelling with smoothly hewn walls and floors. Would that it had been a mere hole in the ground!  
  
If I had any doubts as to his identity, they would have been completely eradicated when he stared down at us. He appeared as surprised as his companions at what he saw, but then that all too familiar look came over his face, and *I* suddenly realized just *what* he saw and my face reddened with sheer embarrassment and discomfiture. I turned to gaze at the Noldo lying beneath me. He no longer looked quite as relieved as he had, merely . . . confused.  
  
Then Gurshak spoke.  
  
"Are m-my eyes deceiving m-me?" he asked in Westron, eyes gleaming intently as he moved a hesitant step closer much to my horror. It was indeed 'him' for there was no mistaking the eager voice with the slight stutter, which became more pronounced when he grew . . . excited.  
  
My expression must have shown my distress for Alagaith, that most unfortunate Noldo thief, stared up at me, brows knit in curiosity and I couldn't help but think that he looked like *I* was the one with rattled brains.  
  
I could not breathe properly and surely Alagaith could feel the rapid, laboured pace of my heart, which accelerated to a nigh impossible rate when the goblin dressed in impeccable, villainous colours came to stand over us. I did not want to see the look on Gurshak's face!  
  
"Oh," he whispered, well, he moaned if I care to be completely accurate in my description of the noise he produced as he knelt swiftly and gracefully beside us, causing me to glance over at him once more. "I-I do not b-believe this," he continued, still in Westron and I wondered if he did it for my benefit. Did he really remember that my Orcish left much to be desired? His voice, a carefully modulated one - if he had been an elf I would have said elegant - was filled with too much delight and wonder as was his roving gaze.  
  
I could no longer look at Gurshak and found myself staring at Alagaith once more. I knew by his perplexed expression that my fear was making itself known to him at last. My entire being was tensed with dread anticipation and it was a struggle not to fight hopelessly with that cursed rope that held up in such a helpless position. I knew soon that I would feel Gurshak's hand on me. If he touched me - ! Valar! An involuntary shudder swept through me and Alagaith's brows rose in question.  
  
"Oh, yes! Oh, yes!" Gurshak murmured having noticed my slight movement, then directed his attention to his companions. "D-do you know w- who this is?" he asked them. "D-do you?"  
  
I heard one of them chuckle and say something in Orcish, which I did not understand. Then he said a name, a name I knew and had heard before, a name that Gurshak had called me the last time I had encountered him, the name he had given to me so very long ago. I moaned, an involuntary sound of fear and hopelessness, one that communicated my present feelings too well, for Alagaith stared up at me oddly and whispered, "What is it?" His gaze wandered over my shoulder to where Gurshak knelt.  
  
"Yes," the goblin said in a sensual tone, and then it happened. He touched me - I felt his hand rest on my head, a gentle caress that brushed over my hair and then slid slowly down my braid, which was tangled in the rope. "My s-s-silver-haired lovely," he sighed, bending closer.  
  
His hand came to rest on the small of my back and he seemed to hesitate. Chuckling slightly, he released me from his touch, only to capture my face in one hand, turning my head so I had to look at him. His thumb moved over my lower lip in an intimate manner and I tried to bite him though he seemed to anticipate this and he evaded my teeth quite skilfully. His companions laughed at this display, though Gurshak only looked even more eager.  
  
"I d-don't want to s-spoil it w-with haste," he said quietly, smiling in a way that made me wish Don Gwaedh was in my hand. I would have shown him haste!  
  
"Wh-who is your l-lovely friend?" he asked, his hand moving to touch Alagaith's face gently, brushing a dishevelled lock of hair from the Noldo's face. "H-he is a n- new one, is he n- not? H-how l-lovely you l- look together! M-much better than any f- female!"  
  
The other goblins were laughing now, shaking their heads in what had to be amusement as Gurshak stood. He moved to speak with them in their own tongue and I stared down at Alagaith, wondering what I could say, wondering *if* I could say anything or had my voice vanished in my terror? Then it dawned on me. Before someone had always come after me . . . someone had always known that something had befallen me! But now! Oropher was not here! Celair was not here!  
  
No one knew where we were! No one!  
  
My eyes became unfocused as I stared at the floor beneath his shoulder. No one would come after us anytime soon. How long before they knew that something had gone wrong and they began a search? One day? More?! And even if they realized that we weren't returning behind them, how would they ever discover that hole we had fallen down!?!?  
  
I began to tremble, much to the amusement of the goblins, who had come to stand over to us. What were they doing!? I swung my head toward Gurshak to see that he was watching us intently, one hand playing with the lace at one of his sleeves. He smiled at me, slowly licking his lips.  
  
"No," I groaned, once again engaged in a futile fight with our bonds. "No!"  
  
There was going to be no getting out this, not this time! None! By the time anyone found us - if they found us! - it would be too late! Too late!  
  
It was then that my thoughts fragmented into many tiny, incoherent pieces. The great Master Archer of Mirkwood panicked.  
  
Fight! We had to fight them!  
  
Flee! We had to flee them!  
  
Fight! Flee! Fight! Flee!  
  
Oh, very well! My thoughts consisted of those two words - fight and flee - and naught else.  
  
We were done for . . . .  
  
~*~*~*~*~  
  
It did not take our somewhat uncomfortable, but absurdly amusing situation more than a few moments to turn into a veritable nightmare.  
  
I had considered the third goblin as somewhat odd from the very beginning, but in my innocence, I had believed that he was simply vain, even ridiculous . . . . I had not seen him as a menace, and it took me some time to realize the full extent of the danger we were in, even though this goblin behaved very strangely, muttering, stuttering, and casting indescribable glances at Tanglinna . . . .  
  
"D-do you know w-who this is?" he finally asked his companions. "D-do you?"  
  
"We are not acquainted with that elf, Gurshak", Uglash replied with a chuckle, and the name he used to address his friend confirmed that they were the merchants I had heard about indeed. "But judging by your apparent joy, we can guess! Would this be the wondrous elf about whom you have told us so much - your dear Daurshul?"  
  
"Yes . . ." Gurshak replied.  
  
If I had still harboured some hopeful doubts when these words had been exchanged - although the name daur shul, 'moonlike hair', used to describe the poor archer, who moaned as if in distress now and would not answer to my whispered question, should have been telling enough - they quickly vanished during the following instants. The smiles, the touches, the strange gleam to the goblin's eyes - all of this told me that something was very wrong, and Tanglinna's obvious fear let me suspect that he had come to the same conclusion even earlier than I.  
  
Until then, I had not been sure how to describe the state of mind Gurshak was in, but the moment his hand touched my face, I could not deny any longer that it seemed like lust, lust without love, a frightening, selfish sort of desire. And what was he saying? "H-how l-lovely you l-look together! M-much better than any f- female!"  
  
Slowly, my confusion gave way to a dreadful suspicion. I had heard stories, strange and disturbing stories told in roadside inns and at the camp fires of travelling companies, stories about men choosing other men over women in love, stories about most peculiar excesses, stories I had not believed until that very day, deeming them the sort of thing invented to show the oddity of the customs of an enemy people or of the habits of single foes, just like the old tales about orcs eating captive elves that our warriors told each other of the stories about elves drinking orc-blood that were passed on in front of orcish fireplaces. Those tales had always seemed a little unreal, especially so when the protagonists had born famous names, and I had attributed the fact that they were told and retold to overactive imaginations and people's notorious interest in the scandalous, shocking and absurd, especially since the content of most of the stories had been of the sort that would have made cover Alagant's ears had he been present to listen to them. Some had even been able to make a hardened old outlaw blush. But never had I met anybody who could have been the hero of one of these questionable tales - until now.  
  
But . . . . this could not be happening! Several things about this whole affair simply did not make any sense whatsoever. Even if I accepted that, hypothetically, the possibility of one male showing this kind of interest in another was given, the theory that this was behind Gurshak's behaviour could not work.  
  
First of all, in order to experience some sort of lust for another being without actually loving it, a certain outward beauty of this other being should be given for the beholder, and this could not be the case. I would not say that the unfortunate archer was ugly; he was actually quite a handsome elf, the emphasis in this statement being on elf - while Gurshak was quite obviously a goblin.   
You may not understand what I wish to express; we are used to describing elves as more or less beautiful and orcs as rather disgusting, so used to this, in fact, that we fail to understand that an orc would never share our opinion in these matters. I had talked about this with Seven long ago, when we had still been in the process of forming something like a friendship. One rainy night, not long after I had met him and Strongsword, we had found shelter in the house of an orcish smith that my new companions had apparently known for some time. At first, they had had a very hard time convincing him that I would not bite, but when some hours had passed, he and his family had admitted that I was actually a harmless elf (as if I could not have told them that in advance!). Nevertheless, I had overheard the smith's wife say to her husband in a low and rather disgusted voice: "It . . . he . . . may be rather docile indeed, as they assured us - but I can hardly bear to look upon that creature!"  
  
Not exactly flattered by this remark, I had mentioned it to Seven later, when we had been alone. "Do you think it was because of my eye?" I had asked, painfully aware once again that the place where my right eye should have been was covered by a cumbersome and not even very clean piece of cloth; I had not possessed a proper eye patch then, not until I had taken one on a battlefield a few weeks later.  
  
Seven had surveyed me with some pity. "No . . . ." he had replied. "At least not only." And, with an apologetic smile, he had added: "No offence meant, One-Eye, but . . . you are an elf, even a rather typical one, if I may say so . . . . And who could find a creature with tousled mud-coloured hair, an eye like a puddle on a rainy day and a skin like fresh goat's cheese terribly pleasant to look upon?"  
  
And, hurt pride aside, I must admit that this is still one of the most accurate descriptions of my appearance that I have ever come across.  
  
Having strayed far enough from the actual story by relating this little memory, I hope to have shown one thing, at least - a normal orc or goblin (for Seven, who had lived with elves long enough now to decide that they had, at least, "their own kind of beauty", did not count) would never call any elf especially good-looking or even 'lovely', as Gurshak had done repeatedly now. He could not be quite serious about considering Tanglinna as overly handsome - but apparently, he was.  
  
Even if I accepted this as well - and I did have some difficulty to concede that it was as much as *imaginable* that a male goblin showed such appreciation for the looks of a male elf - the matter remained most peculiar. If I interpreted Gurshak's actions correctly - and I swear I wished that I did not, but what other explanation could there be for these ardent glances and words of foul passion? - he hoped to . . . to establish some sort of very close and intimate relationship between himself and this poor wood-elf, but how could he even have thought of that? Even if that special sort of closeness had not been morally and legally binding - and it was, orcs, like elves, marrying once in their lives and not taking matters of love too lightly - it was more than apparent that Tanglinna was more than unwilling to be approached in such a manner, and who could blame him for that?  
  
This was when my mind balked at accepting any of this as real and actually happening - for what even halfway sane goblin would . . . . ? I did not pursue that line of thought, but only repeated to myself, over and over, that *such things did not happen*, that even in Morgoth's mines, where the most heinous crimes had been committed and where cruelties and torments of the worst kind had been used to force the captive elves into obedience, such a thing had not taken place as far as I knew . . . . But perhaps this goblin was not sane?  
  
He could not be sane. "H-how l-lovely you l-look together!" he had said . . . . Even if it was, perhaps, possible that this misguided goblin felt strangely attracted to the Mirkwood archer lying on me, no sane being of any kind would have drawn any enjoyment of *this* kind from the sight of two battered elves lying on top of each other against their will!  
The only thing that was remotely reassuring was that the other two goblins were laughing and shaking their heads now; could this, perhaps, indicate that my impression of Gurshak was wrong, that all of this was not real, but only a very tasteless joke, or an attempt to scare us so much that we would not dare to offer resistance?  
  
But then, they should have been able to see that the prospect of having to suffer Gurshak's attentions would make us desperate enough to fight madly, and why should they have been joking? The first thing that would have come to my mind if two strangers had fallen into the hallway of my house - that is, if I had had a house - would not have been exchanging pleasantries with them . . . .  
  
"Enough fun for now, Slasher", the goblin who, I surmised, must be Thrakush, the third of the well-known trio of merchants, now said with a chuckle, obviously addressing Gurshak, and I could not help wondering how he had ended up with so strange a nickname. Had he been a warrior once, renowned for his skill with a blade?  
  
"Yes, enough for now", Uglash chimed in, "there will be enough time to do anything you wish later . . . . They will not run away."  
  
"W-we could m-make them c-comfortable in m-my bedroom", Gurshak suggested; so it had not been a strange joke. "They m-might like that, and I h-have t-to make s-sure they did not hurt themselves t-too b-badly in their f-fall . . . . They m-might need s-some s-salve for their b-bruises, I c-could . . . ."  
  
"Not now", Uglash said, his smile pleasant enough, but his voice firm nonetheless. "In these troubled times, it would be dangerous to invite two somewhat reluctant elves to be our guests . . . . I would prefer to put them in some safe place now, at least until we know something about the outcome of Bolg's campaign . . . . The delivery of wine from Laketown has not arrived yet, after all, although it was due three days ago, and before we know what has become of those barrels, it is certainly not the right time for merrymaking and forgetting about the world. But, actually, the salve is not a bad idea. . . . Go and prepare some! Thrakush and I shall deal with those elves - you could send over the servants so that they can help us with them."  
  
"I d-do not think I w-want my s-silver-haired l-lovely to stay in that place for t-too long", Gurshak slowly answered, with such an emphasis on 'that place' that I started wondering if what we were in for now would cure me of the notion that our situation could not possibly get any worse, "he w-will not l-like that, and I w-would like him t-to b-be at ease!"  
  
"Oh, I am sure he will find it very exciting", Uglash said with a little smile that appeared most unpleasant and cruel to me, and moved closer to us, as did his companions. "And later, given that you manage to convince these elves of your. . . . good intentions, we can think about a different sort of accommodation. . . . Who knows? Perhaps, he will even be grateful to be 'rescued' by you and will wish to express a certain . . . . gratitude?"  
  
This seemed to convince Gurshak; he studied us for a moment with an expression that I did not like at all, but finally, he retired with a last luscious smile at Tanglinna who was, again, fighting to get rid of the rope, the sole effect of his efforts consisting in adding a few bruises to my already battered body.  
  
"Are you insane?" Thrakush hissed as soon as he was gone. "Don't encourage him! Don't you remember what happened the last time he invited an elf to stay, that most annoying Sinda you caught stealing apples in our orchard? That one stayed for three weeks, was noisy and untidy, drank our best wine and finally left with my favourite tunic, while - if I am not mistaken - nothing ever actually happened between the two of them, not counting Slasher's lovelorn sighs!"  
  
"Nothing happened indeed", Uglash snorted, "and I am still sure that this elven twit cheated when we all played cards that one evening . . . . I should have broken his fingers when I had the chance! - But you know we have to indulge Gurshak now and then; he does not interfere with our pastimes, either, that you must admit! And then," - he laughed - "this is his 'silver-haired lovely', the love of his life! We can't deny him that little pleasure, can we?"  
  
The rest of this scene is quickly told. The goblins had the sense to remove Tanglinna's bow and sword before they cut the rope binding him to me, and by the time they proceeded to do so, two servants - one of them muttering "Not again!" when he caught sight of us - had arrived and could be of some help. It seemed they all had expected some sort of opposition, so the archer's valiant attempt to use his dagger did not save us; he was soon disarmed, although that did not prevent him from fighting on as well as he could. I would have done so as well had I only been able to - but the Wood-elves knew how to tie a prisoner securely.  
  
This detail did not escape Thrakush when he removed the rope, and although he and the others were soon busy restraining Tanglinna who was proving them how fierce and wild a Silvan elf could be indeed, he burst out laughing: "Look! That one is really bound! I wonder what strange games Gurshak's elves engaged in before they chose to visit us!"  
  
Strange games? It took me a while to figure out what he meant by this, but the very moment I understood, I remembered another thing, something Gurshak had said shortly before, and apparently referring to me: ""H-he is a n- new one, is he n- not?"  
  
A new one. . . . Strange games. . . .  
  
I tried to look at Tanglinna, to find my hope that what I thought just now was not true confirmed in his face, but meeting the eyes of the kicking, biting, struggling creature that had been a dignified archer of Mirkwood not long ago was impossible. I tried to tell myself that his obvious fear and despair actually spoke in his favour, that 'Slasher' had probably only misunderstood something when those two had met earlier, just as he was misinterpreting our relationship now, but a last shadow of doubt would not vanish.  
  
Very well - I was the prisoner of apparently somewhat demented goblins, I did not know whether I could trust my only companion, and even if we managed to escape, the best thing I could expect was to be taken to Mirkwood to be punished for my theft. Life was truly wonderful at times.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*  
  
Life was truly wonderful at times . . . .  
  
My grand plan to rescue us from the clutches of these most wretched goblins had failed . . . miserably . . . as I should have known it would . . . . They were not fools, and they had anticipated what I would do though. I did manage to scratch one of them before they wrestled Don Gwaedh from my grasp and I left a few bruises and bumps on the others, and myself since they were none too gentle with me at the time. But in the end, the result was inevitable: I was chained - wrists and ankles - to a cell wall, spitting curses in Quenya, Silvan, and Sindarin at those very goblins as I strained in the iron bonds. I threw in a few Orcish curses as well for good measure, which only seemed to amuse our captors even more, though one glared at me quite viciously. He was holding his arm for he was the one unfortunate enough to meet my dagger up close and personally.  
  
The tall goblin laughed outright and came to stand before me, entirely too close as he leaned one hand against the wall near my head, not quite close enough that I could bite him, no, they had learned that lesson well. He grinned at me, reaching up to touch his swollen lips where I had smashed my head against his mouth during the struggle. Then he spoke to me in perfect Westron,  
  
"Once old Slasher has had his fill of you, Daurshul, I think we will have a little 'conversation' about your charming Elvish manners . . . or lack of them. I believe even you could learn some decorum with the right form of . . . persuasion."  
  
I glared at him, which only caused his smile to widen to most unpleasant proportions.  
  
"I have some new . . . toys that I haven't had the pleasure of enjoying yet. You and your friend might get the honour of being the first to play with them. Won't that be fun?" His gaze flicked to Alagaith, who was being very quiet for some reason, but then the goblin grabbed my face, his fingers holding me caught in his bruising grip. He smiled at me once more, his eyes filled with black pleasure before he slammed my head into the wall, released me and turned to walk from the cell, closing the door behind him and speaking once more in his own language to his fellows. None of them looked particularly happy with me, not any more than I was with them. Whatever that tall one said though caused the others to laugh and gaze in at Alagaith and me before they vanished from sight.  
  
I stood panting with pent up anger and frustration at my inability to do anything. There were few times in my life when I have not been the master of whatever situation I found myself in or at least had some measure of control over. Those few times that I had been totally helpless and unable to do anything to help myself or those I loved, things had gone wrong . . . sometimes tragically wrong. I growled, hitting my head against the wall once more for good measure before turning to contemplate the cold iron that bound my right wrist.  
  
The band wasn't as tight as it could have been, and I thought perhaps, with any luck, I might be able to work myself free of it. I would undoubtedly lose some skin, but that seemed a small price to pay for our escape. I yanked down, twisting my already battered right hand and wrist painfully. At least that arm was no longer quite as numb as it had been when the goblins had freed us from that cursed rope. That lack of feeling had forced me to use my left hand to draw Don Gwaedh when I had made our desperate bid for freedom. It had cost me a few precious seconds that might have tipped the balance in our favor . . . .  
  
After a frustrating moment of struggle with the cold iron - I thought that perhaps if I bled enough, my skin would become so slippery that I could slide my hand free - I sighed, glaring at the unforgiving band and at my hand still firmly caught within its grasp.  
  
~If only I were alone,~ I thought giving one more frustrated yank. ~If only it were merely myself I have to worry about! ~  
  
But he was there as well, and under my charge - my protection.  
  
I glanced guiltily at the unfortunate Noldo . . . at Alagaith and saw his eye slide away uncomfortably. What he must have thought of this situation, I could not begin to imagine. He was probably cursing the day he had ever laid eyes - well, his one eye - on me, the day I found him stealing Lalven's cloak . . . .  
  
A cloak . . . a mere scrap of cloth that Lalven no longer had any use for and would not have begrudged this ragged Noldo thief. Lalven was much kinder than I.  
  
Again, I wondered why I had not turned a blind eye to his thievery. Had it been all that terrible?  
  
I studied his profile for he wouldn't meet my eyes at that time. My gaze moved to his clothing, noting how ragged and threadbare they were, how short his own cloak was. It looked almost as though most of it had been cut off at some point. He had *needed* that cloak - needed it! - not merely wanted it because it was a pretty thing. I swallowed as the pang of guilt and remorse grew stronger within my heart. I tugged once more on my bonds, which gave way not at all, and then I sagged dispiritedly.  
  
"I . . .I am sorry," I began, wondering if this entire experience was some lesson in humility from the Valar.  
  
Alagaith looked up at me then, his one eye filled with puzzlement, and I wondered again if he had hit his head too hard.  
  
"*You* are sorry? I should be sorry," he said in a low voice. "Perhaps I am." His head bowed, and he looked as tired and defeated as I felt.  
  
What did he have to be feeling sorry about? It was my fault entirely that we found ourselves in this most precarious and awful situation. I had been the one to decide to go another way, to force that trek up the hill. If I had thought things through more carefully, none of this would have happened. I was not used to anyone arguing with me when I claimed something was my fault; it was a rare occasion when I made this admission and no one had ever moved to gainsay me before.  
  
"What do you possibly have to be sorry for?" I asked, my voice a bit sharp with astonishment. "None of this was your fault! If I hadn't been so utterly foolish, none of this would have happened!"  
  
Exasperation filled me. First, at him for making me admit aloud that I had been less than wise in the decisions made that day, and for thinking that this was somehow his fault. But then my frustration was directed at myself. How *could* it be his fault? Any of it? If I had let him go when I had first seen him then none of this would have happened. It was my fault - entirely - from beginning to end. Oropher would have had my head for making such senseless decisions with no more than half a moment's thought - and rightly so.  
  
I felt guilty once more. The poor thief had hit his head and that must be the explanation for his odd feelings. I should not have snapped at him like he was some wayward youngling twanging bowstrings. I was about to apologize again - Valar! How many times would I find myself apologizing to this Noldo?! - when he gazed up at me, cocking one dark brow.  
  
"Excuse me," he said, "but . . . I caused us to fall into that hole . . . . Not your fault." Then he seemed to grin a bit, though I might have been mistaken. It was almost as though he were trying to reassure me about this . . . yes, I must have been mistaken. But before I could say anything to this, his look grew suspicious and he frowned at me, his grey eye filled with something I could not quite comprehend. "Or," he began again, slowly as if not certain he wished to voice this thought, "did you plan to go here when you led us this way?"  
  
It was my turn to frown. What did he mean, 'did you plan to go here when you led us this way?' I had decided to climb the hill and take the higher ground back to the palace, indeed that had been my somewhat ill- conceived plan. Was that what he meant? Somehow, I thought not. What then *did* he mean?  
  
Alagaith's brows rose and he looked decidedly . . . well, he looked quite . . . !  
  
"What!?" I gasped, eyes widening as it dawned on me what he was implying about me. "You think I *wanted* to end up here?! Here?!" Anger and indignation surged inside me and all charitable thoughts had flown at his silent accusation. "Why would you think that? Do I look like I am enjoying myself?! Or is this what you think I do for fun -falling into goblin holes with unsuspecting elves, right into the lap of . . . of . . . ."  
  
I felt my face redden with embarrassment and horror. How could he think that of me?! Of ME?!! I shuddered, remembering Gurshak's caresses, the way he had looked at me. How could this Noldo think that this was what I wanted? How could he think that of me?  
  
"I did not plan to go this way for. . . for . . .for that!"  
  
I turned away from him then, feeling more hurt by his unspoken thought than I cared to acknowledge. What sort of beast did he think me if he believed I had deliberately planned to bring us here? I yanked and tugged on the bonds, trying to work my pain and frustration out on them. All I succeeded in doing was making my hands and wrists raw and tender. I sighed heavily, suddenly feeling so very exhausted and beaten. Nothing had gone as it should. Nothing . . . .  
  
I turned to him, wanting him to know that whatever he thought of me, I would do everything I could, however I could, to spare him what was to come if we didn't manage to escape before Gurshak came back.  
  
"Whatever happens, regardless of what you think of me," I began slowly, my voice sounding not at all like my own, even in my ears, "I won't let them harm you if it is within my power. I swear this on my life."  
  
I have seldom allowed anyone to see me in such an unguarded moment as I did then for I no longer had the strength to hide what I was feeling. I know that he would see my fear, my disappointment in myself that I had not prevented this from happening, my anguish that I feared there would be nothing I could do to prevent him from being tortured and ill-used.  
  
He spoke then, looking somewhat guilty, yet not meeting my eyes.  
  
"I am sorry . . . I did not mean to imply . . . ." He sighed, looking as uncomfortable as I had earlier. "It was only what that Gurshak said - 'a new one' . . . . I must admit that made me wonder . . . . Sorry."  
  
He did gaze up at me then, warily and I could see that he did not know what to say anymore than I did. An uneasy silence filled our cell, only the occasional rattle of my chains breaking it.  
  
"But stop fighting with those chains," he said suddenly. "You will only hurt yourself, and that will not be of any use whatsoever." Just as suddenly, he grinned. "I know about chains, so take my sage advice."  
  
I found I was smiling in spite of myself.  
  
"I suppose you would have a greater knowledge of chains than I would," I said with a wry grin, but I was unable to prevent myself from yanking on the 'chains' once more. Alagaith was not nearly as restricted as I was, but then he had not fought them as I had. His course had proven to be the wiser.  
  
The last time it hadn't been chains or a dank cell for me though. My imprisonment had been in a much nicer place, my bonds not so cold and harsh, but it had been imprisonment all the same, with Gurshak standing over me . . . . I shuddered.  
  
"I have met . . .Gurshak before . . .twice to be precise. The last time . . . well, I was not with a . . . a. . . male 'companion' when he came across me."  
  
~Celair,~ I thought, still amazed at the pain that some thoughts of her could still bring. My bright lady-wife had rescued me from certain . . . well, from a most unwanted fate. Who would rescue me . . . us now? Who would gently tease and laugh afterwards?  
  
"I am sorry that I have gotten you into this," I said quietly, fearing that if we could not manage to free ourselves, we would not be freed. "Please forgive me."  
  
My thoughts turned grim once more. There was only one course: we would *have* to free ourselves . . . however we could . . . .  
  
TBC 


	6. Chapter 5 Sorrows Revisited

Authors' Notes – Alagant is equivalent of an 8 year old human; when Tanglinna was 20 springs that is equal to about a 13 year old human.  
  
For the incident in Doriath, please see Lady Elleth's "The Trees of Neldoreth".  
  
~*~*~*~*~*  
  
Alagaith Alagaerion calmly sips a cup of mint tea, ankles crossed, looking very relaxed as he watches a slightly perturbed Tanglinna Thindalagosion glaring at one of the most hated objects of all times in any world: a printer. The Noldorin elf watches with an amused eye as his companion mutters quiet imprecations at the lowly, unimpressed machine. It didn't seem to matter how many times he had shown the Silvan how to operate the printer, Tanglinna somehow managed to jam the paper every time he touched it.  
  
"It doesn't like me, Linlote! I won't touch it," the archer declares at last, straightening and folding his arms over his chest as he throws a surreptitious glance at the other elf.  
  
"You must be nice to it, Mordil," Alagaith began patiently, lifting his teacup to hide his grin. "Sweet smiles and compliments, you know." He winks, barely able to keep the chuckle from bubbling forth as Tanglinna's eyes narrow.  
  
"Why is it *I* must always be the one to soothe evil 'beasts' with sweet smiles and compliments? I think I have done my share of that over time. . . . And besides . . . ." He frowns suddenly, his gaze moving back to the printer, unwilling to admit that a mere machine has defeated him. "Oh, very well!"  
  
There is a battle to be waged this day, but not one with bow or bladed weapons. With a quick, uneasy glance at Alagaith, who nods encouragingly, lifting his cup in salute, the Master Archer attacks, his voice a low purr.  
  
"Nice printer. Won't you please work for me today? You are such a . . . lovely colour. Pretty please?"  
  
One hesitant finger moves to hover over the PRINT button.  
  
When the recalcitrant machine doesn't make a sound, indeed it seems to regard the archer with stony silence, Tanglinna turns to Alagaith.  
  
"Nothing is happening! I told you, it doesn't like me . . . ."  
  
Alagaith watches this scene with equal silence, noting the pained expression on his companion's face, the knit brows; the perplexed frown that was slowly growing into a feral growl. He reaches over and deftly pushes the printer's POWER button.  
  
Tanglinna's cheeks redden, but he says nothing, pressing the PRINT button once more and holding his breath in anticipation of much shredded, crumpled paper and jammed printer intestines. The machine hums to life, the mechanism sliding the first sheet of blank paper smoothly into action.  
  
"See?" Alagaith says with a nod. "It can be nice. . . .It does like you, after all. I knew your talent for soothing evil beasts was unequalled." He stands then, patting the archer on the shoulder.  
  
"Hmph," Tanglinna snorts. "Your confidence in me is so inspiring." His pleased look belies his words as he crouches down to watch the papers like a hawk for any sign of crumpling or crunching. There are none and he soon slips the papers from the tray and arranges them in the proper order. "Well," he continues in a triumphant voice, "that was fairly easy." He then hands the papers to the Noldo with a grin and a graceful bow. "Here are your reviews, Lord Alagaith."  
  
Alagaer's son would have been the perfect picture of an arrogant Noldorin lord but for the wide grin that lights his face.  
  
"Thank you," he replies with a tip of his elegant dark head. "Let's see . . . . What does kingmaker have to say?" Well . . . 'say' may not be the right word – look at this!" He points to the review with one finger. "It appears our poor friend is not feeling well . . . ."  
  
Tanglinna's eyes scan the paper in Alagaith's hand, and he nods solemnly.  
  
"I do hope he is feeling better. I don't believe I was feeling too well myself at that point either, so I do sympathize with him." He frowns suddenly. "I simply have to tell you, kingmaker, that I wish I had not panicked when I did, but that panic, by its very nature, is not something we have much control over. But . . . next time I will endeavour to do better. I will work on my . . . Panic Reaction Timing."  
  
Alagaith turns slowly to Tanglinna, one brow raised.  
  
"I hope you are not implying that there will be a next time, Mordil!"  
  
Tanglinna turns equally slowly to meet the Noldo's grey gaze.  
  
"I assure you there will not be a next time, Linlote. But if there were another such time, it appears we would have many people ready to come and rescue us. Ptath has an impressive array of weapons at her disposal and ready to employ them on our behalf." He lifts one brow in return, arms folded confidently over his chest once more.  
  
"Impressive indeed," Alagaith intones with a nod of appreciation. "But even if you are not rescued in time, you need not really worry – WeasleyTwinsLover112 promises you 'lots of kisses' to make you feel better. . . . And," he adds in an ominous voice, "you seem to be doomed."  
  
After smiling languorously at WeaselyTwinsLover112, Tanglinna turns to glare at Alagaith, who quirks his brows and continues hastily.  
  
"Venytuima says she hopes that someone gets us out 'before poor Alagaith has to go through it too! – so apparently, she is very sure that you already had to go through . . .something, and who are we to gainsay her."  
  
Tanglinna glares at him when a slight smirk tugs on Alagaerion's lips.  
  
"I fear I will have to gainsay her on this point. I have never . . . ." He hesitates, his cheeks reddening slightly. "That is . . . nothing like . . . .that . . . .has yet happened. I was lucky to escape his . . . attentions . . . intentions . . . Nothing *will* happen between Gurshak and I. . . . I hope. . . ." The archer's face feels entirely too hot and he shakes his head. "But I must agree with Venytuima that Tree is mean! Thank you for the hug, mel-nin. It is much appreciated." He smiles at the screen before regarding his companion once more. "I must also say that I agree with Dis Thrainsdotter – it is a pity that Bilbo Baggins was not there. I suspect he can pick locks better than some 'burglars' I know. Don't you agree, Alagaith God of Thieves?" he finishes with a grin, chuckling when a blush paints Alagaith's cheeks.  
  
"You need not remind me of that embarrassment, Mordil!" He sighs with mild annoyance. "But, well . . . ." Eyes the archer apologetically. "Perhaps I deserve that – the evil witch queen was shocked, after all, that I thought the wrong thing about you . . . And it was not nice of me, I admit that. But she has interesting suggestions again . . . .Apparently, you will have to get 'really badly injured' to save my life." Alagaith grins at the evil witch queen playfully. "Very interesting indeed! And Tanglinna certainly would not hesitate to do such a thing – but since it would be a waste to sacrifice a valiant Master Archer for a lowly thief, it will not happen that way."  
  
Tanglinna snorts derisively at this last, shaking his head.  
  
"You are truly a humble Noldo, Linlote. . . . And to think you call me the 'peacock'!" He grins at the evil witch queen before reading the papers once more. "I believe that amlugwen has made an interesting statement though. It is quite true that if I had my bow when I had encountered Gurshak before, he would be dead. . . well, the second time that would be true. The first time. . . I was too young to realize what he . . . wanted . . . and I didn't have my bow with me then. . . .How embarrassing! Now everyone will think I cannot take care of myself." He glares at the papers, trying to find something that will turn this conversation in another direction. "I wish the ground would swallow me now, as Lutris has said . . . that would have been preferable to what Gurshak wanted. . . .Ah! daw the minstrel wants to know about the business you have had with orcs. I want to know that as well, Linlote. You seem to know an awful lot about them and their business dealings." One brow lifts speculatively.  
  
Alagaith is not amused. He meets the archer's enquiring gaze levelly.  
  
"We are supposed to respond to these reviews, Mordil – if I started telling you and our readers all about the business I have had with orcs, we would still be here in a month, and we cannot do that – Karianua would not be happy with us! She promised cookies in exchange for a fast update, and I believe you would like to have a cookie." He grins then, eye sparkling. "You may be a very grown-up, respectable Master Archer, but I think you cannot resist such an offer. Well . . . Miss Aranel will give you a cookie as well if you are a good elfling and stop doing all those 'harmful things'? Or perhaps peach pie . . . . She and a young elven lady of hers have a wonderful peach pie recipe." His grin widens and he winks at Miss Aranel.  
  
"Hm . . . well, I will try to refrain from doing 'harmful things' to myself in the future. I will have to blame some of it on the Panic Reaction . . . though, yes, Linlote, some of it was indeed just ridiculous on my part. I agree to behave from now on, after all, Kal the Magnificent wants to have a tea party at the end of the story. I don't think we should invite the goblins though . . . . I agree with hel – I don't like Uglash's comments about his toys either . . . And to think, you thought he was a respectable merchant!"  
  
"How should I have known he was not? Or are you implying that people like Uglash frequent the circles I usually move in? I sincerely hope you are not!" Alagaith turns a full-blown 'arrogant Noldo' glare on the Silvan, grey eye filled with danger.  
  
Tanglinna manages to return the intimidating look with an inscrutable one of his own.  
  
"Now, Linlote. Would I suggest such a thing about you? I think we are all merely curious about your past and your dealings with . . . creatures that I have not truly had any sort of dealings with myself, unless it was at the end of a sword. But," his eyes stray toward Alagaith's hand to see if it has moved ever so slightly toward his sword hilt, "since we are not going to be rescued by our fans, Oropher, Seven, Celair, Thranduil, your father, Beorn, or a cute woodland creature, I suppose it is time fort the actual tale to continue." He smiles at the readers, flicks a gaze at Alagaith once more, then turns to the printer. "Good printer. I always knew you liked me best." The archer grins and then moves hastily away from his companion with an apologetic shrug.  
  
~*~*~*~*  
  
Chapter 5 - Sorrows Revisited  
  
After our short conversation, there was silence for a while, real silence this time; Tanglinna did not yank at his chains too often any more, and I was glad that he was sensible enough to see my point that fighting against them too much would do more harm than good. But who was I to blame him for his fear and despair? He had met Gurshak twice already, or so he had said, and also he had not told me more than this, I suspected that these two previous meetings had resembled this one to a certain degree. I could not imagine what it would mean to have been the captive of that strange goblin for two times, what stages of fear, disgust and pain he had gone through, and how far humiliation and ill-treatment had gone.  
  
He doubtlessly had every reason to be afraid, and yet, his impending fate did not seem to be his foremost worry – for some reason, the Mirkwood archer was concerned about me, even though I had told him quite clearly that I had caused our fall, and even though I had rewarded his apology with distrust and a hideous suspicion. He had every reason to be displeased, even furious, with me, and even if he was honourable enough to be resolved to help me if he could, nothing had forced him to tell me this, even to swear that he would do whatever was in his power. . . .  
  
But he had done so unconditionally, reassuring me as if I was a friend or a comrade in arms, not a troublesome thief who did not deserve much consideration, and he had been sincere, that much I could tell – he had appeared unguarded, even vulnerable, and I had already read in his face that he doubted that he would be able to keep his promise when he had still been speaking. Oddly enough, the knowledge that the practical value of Tanglinna's was rather limited, while he certainly meant to keep it if he could, almost made it more precious to me. He had wanted me to know that I could count on him, that, at least for the span of time we would spend in this goblin lair, hours, days, or the rest of our lives, we would be allies, and not a prisoner and his guard. There had to be a lot of nobility in this otherwise unyielding warrior, and if his apology earlier that day had already made me think, his words in the cell had won him my respect.  
  
Perhaps, I should have told him all of that then and there, but I did not. Kind words would probably be all I would be able to offer if the situation grew worse, and a remedy should not be used too often in order not to lose its effect when it is really needed.  
  
Alas, I knew well how to dose that sort of medicine in encouragement or comfort; often enough, I had not had any choice but to watch helplessly when less than pleasant things had been done to friends of mine, and even more often, I had not witnessed what had happened, but had been left to deal with the sorry effects of pain inflicted deliberately, of long stays in dark holes hardly deserving even the name of a cell, of honour and dignity stolen . . . . Just as often, I had been in need of whatever comfort and encouragement well-meaning words had to offer; this was not the first time that I found myself in chains in a gloomy cell, alone or with company I had not chosen. But this... this was different from anything I had ever been through before, and it was worse, much worse!  
  
When I had lost my freedom before, it had always been because I had been suspected or guilty of some sort of crime, not counting the very long hour I had spent tied to an old oak tree after I had had the bad sense of happening across a man and an orc at the wrong time, the latter convincing the former in a lengthy debate that cutting my throat would not be the best way out of the difficulties they had believed to be in due to the presence of a witness to their rather pathetic attempt of breaking into a farmhouse . . . . But this special tale does not belong here.  
  
While being in prison for punishment or to await a trial can mean anything from simply sitting in dark thought for days to being subjected to fairly harsh treatment, it does have one great advantage – those guarding the unfortunate prisoners have to follow certain rules, and even though the more malevolent sort of gaoler may perhaps change or bend these rules a little to be able to inflict the occasional small cruelty on his charges, it is more or less predictable what can and will happen. There is little kindness to expect, that much is true – but little hatred either. It hardly matters who you are – and admittedly, this was the one thing that made regular imprisonment comparable to my short captivity at Seven and Strongsword's hands long ago. It had been brought about by what I had been to them at that moment, and what I had been in their eyes – a witness and a menace, in Strongsword's opinion, a creature that had not harmed them and did not deserve to be slain merely out of fear, as Seven would have said – had dictated their course of action.  
  
Admittedly, even that could have led to my demise, but whatever they would have done, if would certainly not have been motivated by delight in their prisoner's suffering, or by any very individual emotion at all – and I certainly preferred a captor who acted according to a certain kind of understandable laws – codified actual laws, or simply those of logic, of common sense or of honour – to someone like Gurshak who only seemed to follow his own inexplicable desires and wishes, not even to mention that what he apparently planned to do was worse than even the torture Uglash had alluded to.  
  
I glanced at Tanglinna who appeared to be lost in his own thoughts, no pleasant thoughts, at that. Strange to think that I had considered him enough of an enemy earlier that day to want him to fall, to hurt his pride just a little... I certainly had not wished to see him as defeated and hopeless as he was now, and yet, our current predicament was the result of my unnecessary little revenge, for if I had not pulled him down with me, we would not have been here now . . . .  
  
Perhaps the Valar wanted to teach me that vindictiveness was not commendable under any circumstances, and especially not in marginal matters – but the Valar were just, and if this had been their work, the rope would have torn in our tumble down the hill, sparing poor Tanglinna a fate he did not deserve. No, blaming the Valar would have been wrong and too easy – I had made a mistake, and these were the consequences, as simple as that, and very explicable even without suspecting divine intervention.  
  
Yet it was incredible, almost absurd, that a petty quarrel and a grown-up elf who should have known better being very childish should have lead to this nightmarish kind of captivity... Perhaps Tanglinna had reached a similar conclusion, for what else could have provoked the little chuckle that suddenly escaped him?  
  
The unexpected noise interrupted my brooding and brought my attention back to the present and my immediate surroundings, for even though I had thought about what had brought about our fall and what awaited us now, I had paid little heed to what was real and there then. And *seeing*Tanglinna instead of just vaguely acknowledging his presence and thinking about him, I almost forgot the question I had wanted to ask – "What is so amusing?" – because I discovered something that I should have noticed much earlier . . . . Lamenting our fate and engaging in vain thoughts, I had wasted precious time, not grasping the one opportunity to save us.  
  
We were fools, terrible fools – and so, thank the Valar, were our captors! True enough, they had chained us, and they had taken all weapons away – but they had forgotten to remove the pouch from Tanglinna's belt and had not emptied it either, although something that could be useful enough now was in it – a needle case, containing needles not only fit for mending or sewing or doing some embroidery, but also for picking locks, if the need arose . . . and I could reach that pouch!  
  
I should have explained my plans to Tanglinna, but I was so thrilled with my sudden realization that I moved over to him and started searching the pouch without saying a word. It was small wonder that the poor wood-elf was a bit surprised.  
  
"What are you doing?" he enquired, and did not have to raise my eye to know that he was looking down at me with a puzzled expression. "There is no time for that now! You can always pick my pockets when we are out of this mess."  
  
I did not know whether he was entirely serious, I chuckled, so filled with new hope that joking and being merry seemed possible again. "I shall remind you of that kind permission", I assured him, "but I am looking for something that will get us out of the mess . . . . Or so I hope."  
  
The first thing to fall into my hands, however, was not the case of needles, but the little carved warg, and giving the little toy a fond smile before placing it in my pocket and continuing my search, I decided to take the fact that the warg had turned up first as a sign that all would end well, or at least as a reminder that my attempt to free would not only have to be successful because of Tanglinna and me; I could not simply die or let myself be reduced to a worthless wreck here.  
  
I found the needle case soon enough, and when I pulled it out, Tanglinna finally seemed to understand what I had in mind. "A needle! You think you can pick these locks with a needle?!" he asked, staring at me with a frown, but then, he sighed, as if admitting that he had not got a better plan either, and nodded in acceptance. "I sincerely hope you can!" Maybe he *hoped* it indeed, but I was sure he did not believe it; the look he cast at the heavy black iron fettering us was rather doubtful.  
  
Truth to tell, I was not very certain, either, but doing anything at all was still better than just standing in sullen silence, waiting for Gurshak's return.  
  
"I will not promise anything", I replied with a shrug. "I can at least try, but I warn you that I am not good at picking locks - burglary is not my favourite occupation... Can you pick a lock?"  
  
This question – serious as it was, for if he could, he could be of some help as soon as one of his hands was freed – earned me a snort. "I admit that burglary is not my favourite occupation either", Tanglinna told me with a wry grin, but his eyes followed the movement of my hands when I chose a needle and began my work on the lock of the iron band encircling the archer's right wrist.  
  
I worked in silence, probing my enemy and trying to move the needle this or that way, discovering soon that, unfortunately, this lock was better than those of chests and larder doors that wanted to be opened without their owners' consent, even better than those on the kind of chains that were usually considered sufficient to hold a simple thief. These were bonds apt to restrain important prisoners that could not be allowed to escape under any circumstances, or – to secure the goblins' prey.  
  
I grimaced slightly, forcing myself not to think about Gurshak and his vile friends just now. I had to treat this as what it was, a lock on a chain, nothing more, a lock that had to be opened – thinking of all that could happen would only let my concentration fail. I had to be calm and composed now, not only to save myself, but also for Tanglinna's sake. I did not look at his face even when I needed to pause in my work for a moment, secretly fearing to see much hope that might be disappointed, or so many doubts that I would be discouraged, but rather let my eye rest on the hand in front of me, an archer's hand indeed, long accustomed to drawing a bowstring, and probably better with a bow than with a blade.  
  
These alternating intervals of contemplating the fingers I had cut some days earlier – thankfully, they seemed to be healing rather well – and working to free us could have continued for much longer a time, had not Tanglinna's voice interrupted me, not with a comment on what I did or on our situation, but with a question that took me by surprise.  
  
"Why . . .why do you carry a toy warg with you?"  
  
Perhaps he only asked to start a conversation that would occupy him; perhaps he really wished to know . . . . I was not certain, but I briefly interrupted my attempt to pick the lock to look up and smile at him. "Alagant carved it", I explained, feeling immeasurably proud, for the carving was skilfully done and beautiful, even more so if one considered Alagant's age and the fact that he had only had Half-Dead's old carving knife to work with... Remembering that the name could not mean anything to Tanglinna, I added: "My son. It was a gift from him."  
  
With this, I resumed my work.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*  
  
After our first initial conversation, we stood silently for a time, both lost in our own thoughts. I shook my head slightly, my eyes moving to the small barred window set in the door. There was not much hope that we would manage to escape before Gurshak or one of his companions returned, but I could not allow myself to lose all hope, but at moments like this it was rather hard not to. I had no idea how many goblins inhabited this underground hideaway; it was possible that we had seen them all, but more likely that we had not. I found myself wishing that I were as innocent and unaware of what would befall us here, as naïve as I had been the first time I had the displeasure of making Gurshak's acquaintance, then perhaps I wouldn't feel quite so despairing.  
  
When Oropher had arrived and unchained my wrists - for though I did not know what Gurshak's intentions were toward me, I knew that I didn't want him anywhere near me, and I had been rather a "wild little thing" and needed to be restrained– he had shaken his head in relieved amusement as he gathered me, a mere youngling of twenty springs, into his waiting arms.  
  
"Oh, Tanglinna," he had chuckled, stroking back my tousled, tangled hair as I buried my face against his shoulder, my fingers knotting in his forest green tunic. I had been too relieved to see him and to learn that the goblins had not found the injured Thranduil that I did not think beyond this. "You must choose your . . . 'friends' with more care," he finished after I had told him haltingly that Gurshak had told me that he merely wanted to be my 'friend'. Oropher had hugged me fiercely even as I continued to ask after Thranduil's safety, hardly daring to believe that he was truly well and out of harm's way.  
  
Oropher and my lady-wife had not let me forget that I was Daurshul of the moonlike hair after my second encounter with Gurshak, and because the story spread, and neither Celair nor Oropher would admit that they had anything to do with its circulation, everyone knew about Daurshul and his "admirer". It was all well and good in its way I suppose, but only because thus far Gurshak had been unsuccessful in his attempts to . . . seduce me, if that is what you care to call it.  
  
~What would you think this time, aran-nin? ~ I wondered silently with a wry grin. ~My only chance to escape him this time lay with this thief. And a Noldo at that! ~  
  
I could well imagine what Oropher would say! I chuckled slightly as I thought of what had lead to this most unwanted and strange situation. Oropher would indeed have something to say about this ridiculous turn of events!  
  
A bit later, while Alagaith tried to pick those heavy iron fetters with his skilled thief's hands and a needle - of all things! – I hardly dared to breathe for fear of breaking his concentration, but every passing second brought closer the time that Gurshak would return . . . . Alagaith had not said anything in a rather long time, and I felt the silence between us becoming oppressive once more – too oppressive - and I found myself recalling the toy warg in the pouch at my waist, anything to avoid thinking about what might happen at any moment if those goblins returned for us, especially Gurshak. He had reached in for the needle packet and taken the toy out instead, neatly putting it into his pocket. It was obviously of some special importance to him, otherwise why would he have removed it first and placed it on his person. My curiosity got the better of me, not to mention the lack of sound except the scratching of the needle in the iron lock, and I asked him why he would carry a carved toy with him. The answer I received was totally unexpected.  
  
A son? He had a . . . a son? I stared at him, knowing that he was not going to meet my eyes at that moment for he was busy with the lock once more. I had seen the pride and love shining on his face when he made this stunning pronouncement. He had a son . . . .  
  
An indescribable emotion swept through me as I watched him work, a smile still lingering on his lips, and I knew that he still thought of his child. What must that be like, to feel such pride over a child's accomplishments? I would never know this personally . . . .  
  
Over the years I have seen many parents announcing a child's first steps, their first words, even the appearance of a first little white tooth with such bursting excitement and joy, as if their child were the only one to be able to do these marvels. There is nothing to match the glow that suffuses their faces at these moments, those most precious moments that only parents are gifted with. They seem to gain more satisfaction and delight from these small milestones than anything they themselves have ever accomplished. It is as if this child is their crowning accomplishment, the best thing that they will ever create . . . . But some of us are not destined to know these feelings, some of us have been denied that pleasure . . . .  
  
I found myself recalling all too clearly the joy that one experiences when anticipating the arrival of a child: the wondrous days of watching the child growing safely within his naneth's womb, the feeling of the babe kicking vigorously, so full of life already . . . of gazing into my wife's eyes and still feeling amazed and humbled that she could actually love me and had wanted to give me a child. . . .  
  
"You . . . you have a son?" I murmured, trying to push away those heartbreaking remembrances that I did not want to recall, not now. I was unable to stop the bitter and unworthy thought that it truly wasn't fair that this downtrodden Noldo thief had a son when I did not. Yet this Noldo thief was here with me in this cell awaiting the same fate as myself, working to free us both. We had to get out . . . the child would need his ada, just as his ada must need him. "Where is he?" I hoped that my voice did not betray my too strong emotions in this moment, but I need not have worried for Alagaith was engrossed in his work, the small silver needle's deft twisting and turning were a testament to that.  
  
"Somewhere near the place where you caught me . . . if he is still there."  
  
He shrugged, seemingly nonchalant, but I was shocked to hear this, and dismayed.  
  
"What?" Surely I had misunderstood what he said, or at least what he meant. "You left your son near where I caught you? Alone?! What!?!?"  
  
I admit that it was entirely possible his son was grown and quite capable of taking care of himself, but from the way he had spoken of him when I asked about the warg carving, I had the impression that his son was still a child . . . and he had left him alone near a battlefield! If he were found, he would be taken care of . . .if it were an elf, dwarf, or man that found him, but there were still some goblins about and if they were to find him. . . . I stared down at Alagaith in amazement and anger. Surely he must have realized this very real danger!  
  
He in turn, glared up at me, mild indignation bringing faint colour to his cheeks, sparked in his eye, and twisted his lips.  
  
"I would *never* leave him alone," he said in a tight, accusatory voice. "Someone is looking after him?"  
  
Shame flooded me. Of course he would not have left his son alone and unattended. What parent would? Why was I assuming the worst about him?  
  
"Oh," I began, gazing away from him uncomfortably. "I am sorry." Valar! Again! This apologizing must stop! I vowed then to try and not make hasty judgements, as it seemed that all of my judgements of late had been . . . wrong. I needed to stop responding in this hasty, reactionary way. It served only to make him angry and myself as well. I had misjudged him at nearly every turn. I cleared my throat self-consciously, renewing my vow to think before my tongue took over. "How . . . how old is he?" I still could not meet his gaze and stared instead at the barred window.  
  
Alagaith chuckled, seeming amused by what must surely be a most familiar question.  
  
'Twelve," he answered. "And growing too quickly."  
  
I smiled at this remark, thinking how often I had heard parents talking of clothing outgrown too quickly, shoes that fit one day but not the next. How plump toddlers suddenly turned into gangly younglings, all long arms and legs, rather like awkward young colts.  
  
Thranduil had said that very thing many years ago as we had watched young Legolas tripping over his own feet in his haste to enter a foot race.  
  
"They grow up too quickly, Tanglinna," he had said wistfully. I had agreed. Even I could see that.  
  
I remembered the sad look on Thranduil's face when, after the race was over, Legolas flashed his adar a quick smile, his face flushed with victory, before running off to join a group of his friends.  
  
"It is rather sad when they grow up," the king had continued in a quiet voice, as we watched the younglings chattering at one another about the race, and sneaking glances at the maidens that twittered nearby.  
  
"Why sad?" I had asked in my ignorance.  
  
"Not long ago he would have come running to me, jumping on my lap to tell me all about his race. They grow up so quickly . . . life changes before you realize it. In a mere heartbeat of time, everything can change . . . ."  
  
This I knew to be true. Celair and Cubell, our unborn son, had been taken from me in a heartbeat, a mere moment of time that I would have given anything to change.  
  
"Is he with your wife then?" I asked Alagaith, forcing my eyes away from the bars and back to my companion.  
  
He shook his dark head, his eye fastened on the lock and the slow manipulations of the needle.  
  
"She died in childbirth . . . . A friend is looking after him."  
  
He said this swiftly, his eye never wavering; yet I heard the pain that coloured his words.  
  
"I . . . I am sorry," I began, thinking that perhaps the two of us had more in common than I would first have thought. "That is . . . one never recovers from that completely . . . ." No. One never did. I turned away, feeling the hot bite of unwanted tears in my eyes, whether they were for myself or for this thief and his child, I did not know. Perhaps it was for all of us, who had known such loss . . . .  
  
"Your wife died as well?"  
  
I turned to look at him, nodding slowly, knowing that he knew the answer already.  
  
"A long time ago . . . . It seems like forever . . . or yesterday." I don't know why I said this, my mind drifting once again to unpleasant memories: memories of a conception day celebration that never took place because everything I held dear, everything I loved had been taken from me in such an unexpected and violent way. I shook my head once more to rid it of such unwanted thoughts. This was not the time or the place for such melancholy wanderings. They were things best forgotten, as I tried to forget what my conception day meant to me now, not the day that I first opened my eyes to this world of ours, but the day in which all my dreams and hopes for the future had died.  
  
We had been discussing his son . . . a much happier topic. . . his child. "Your son is skilled . . . the carving is wonderfully done," I managed, and nearly succeeded in smiling at Alagaith.  
  
He hesitated only slightly before smiling very proudly once more.  
  
"He is . . . and he does enjoy it. He has always been busy with a carving knife these last months, and . . . ." Suddenly he stopped, drawing a breath, his smile turning more inward; a smile for his son, whom I suspected he could talk about endlessly. That was the way of most parents when it came to the subject of their offspring. But then the smile faded and he gave an exasperated sigh. "And . . . I cannot pick this lock." He stared down at the needle in his hand, looking as annoyed and disappointed as I felt.  
  
Yet I smiled at him encouragingly. It wouldn't do to admit defeat, not just yet.  
  
"It was a valiant try. We . . . we will just have to think of something else. Do you have anything else in here," I nodded down to the pouch that hung at my waist, "that might help?"  
  
I gazed over at him hopefully; he was a thief after all, and probably a master lock-picker for all he claimed that he wasn't. There had to be something, if not in that pouch then somewhere in the cell. My eyes swept over the room, dismayed when nothing presented itself as useful to aid in our escape. I had no plan . . . I had no plan . . . . It hurt to admit this, but surely, *surely* Alagaith would think of something if I could not.  
  
He snorted a bit then, and raised one brow impudently.  
  
"You should know what is in it," he said, nodding toward the pouch in question, his voice filled with mild reprimand. "There is nothing."  
  
I felt my cheeks flush slightly at this mild accusation. I did indeed know the contents of that pouch as I had looked through them not so very long ago.  
  
"I . . . I am sorry about that." Another apology! How many was that?! I had never apologized to someone so much in my entire life! And yet . . . . "I . . . I admit I was curious about you . . . . I know that is no excuse though." I frowned then, disgusted at myself for having done entirely too many things that I now felt I had to apologize for, but as my eyes fell on the doorway again, the torches from the hall throwing long shadows across the dark stone floor, my mind returned to our current and most pressing problem. "We will have to do something when they come back for us," I muttered darkly, my eyes narrowing with determination. "If only I could free myself from these cursed chains!" I yanked on them once more, just as ineffectually as before, but I didn't like merely standing there helpless! There must be something we should be doing to gain our freedom! - anything but standing and looking hopeless. I growled a little, thinking that our time alone must indeed be growing short. Gurshak would appear any moment, peering through the barred window in anticipation. There must be something that we were missing! Something that would aid us! But what?  
  
As my eyes swept over the too bare cell once more, he spoke, rather hesitantly as if knowing that what he was going to say would be ill received.  
  
"Perhaps they will let us out of here sooner or later if you pretend to comply with Gurshak . . .At least. . . they said so. . . ." He paused then, sounding uncertain. "Or almost."  
  
I rounded on him then, and I am sure that he was expecting some sort of violent reaction from me at this most unwanted suggestion for he had stepped away from me. I did not disappoint.  
  
"What?!" I roared as what he implied I should do finally sank in. "I would never comply with Gurshak!" I hissed, my entire body tensed with anger. "And – what?" My eyes narrowed once more, this time directed at the Noldo. "You *knew* what they were saying?"  
  
How could he know what they were saying when they were speaking Orcish? I glared at him suspiciously; he did look slightly guilty at this last admission as if he knew he had made some mistake in saying he knew what they had said. Who was this Noldo thief? All I knew of him was that he was a thief, who robbed the dead, spoke disrespectfully to those in authority over him, and couldn't pick locks well at all! Was he perhaps in league with goblins? I didn't want to believe this, and yet he had thought the same thing about me . . . wrongly so and therefore I must try to assume that I was once again jumping to wrong conclusions. I sincerely hoped I was! I drew a few deep breaths, trying to recall my vow about making quick judgement calls. As evenly and quietly as I could, I asked him,  
  
"*How* do you know what they said?"  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
Shared captivity and danger may bring about an alliance, but it takes other things to instigate a feeling of companionship, shared thoughts, shared laughter – or shared grief.  
  
Tanglinna's innocent question about my wife had let the conversation take quite an unexpected turn; I had hoped to be able to get past this subject quickly, unwilling to make too much of it and allow someone who was hardly more than a stranger to see all the sorrow I still felt when I thought of the pale autumn morning on which, after a long and fearful night, I had not had a wife any more.  
  
Although I had been sure that my face had remained quite impassive when I had answered, Tanglinna had sensed well enough what I had felt at that moment, and it had been with amazement that I had realized that we both knew the same kind of pain, too great to recover from it completely indeed, a wound unhealing, even deepened by the knowledge that Belegweth's death had not only robbed me of my wife, but had also deprived Alagant of his mother, who would have loved him so dearly and would have cared for him better than his flawed and imperfect father did, and had stolen the joy of seeing her child grow up from Belegweth herself...   
How he had lost his wife, I did not know, and I dared not ask, seeing that he was fighting back tears, almost as if his grief was still fresh and new, not turned into an equally painful, but well-known and quiet sort of sorrow. However, he had said that his wife had died a long time ago . . . . The story behind this had to be even less pleasant than other tales of death and loss, for I could not imagine that this warrior, so distant and composed at other times, would have cried in the presence of someone like *me* when reminded of it if whatever had happened had been bearable, if sad.   
On we moved, to more harmless subjects, Alagant's carved warg again, my inability to pick the lock, new apologies, but my thoughts lingered on the unfortunate matter for some more time, trying to discover a glimpse of the grim reality behind Tanglinna's sparse words without having to enquire. A great grief, a lasting grief... I wondered if he had borne it on his own all the time. He had seemed guarded during the days of our journey, unwilling to encourage any sort of closeness. The other Wood-elves had appeared to fear and respect him, but who would offer him friendship and understanding, without mistaking sorrow and tears that had to be wept for weakness? Pity and disrespect are close neighbours at times, and I could well imagine that he wore his poised mask for that reason.  
  
But then, I had only seen him with his fellow warriors; I did not know anything about his friends, about his family . . . . Did he have a child, or several children, whose presence could chase the unhappiness away for moments, hours, even days? I tried to imagine my companion drawing a silver-haired toddler onto his lap or smiling at a grown up son and daughter, but somehow, it did not seem very likely, not because I could not imagine him as a father at all; but the pain he obviously still felt seemed too severe to leave much hope that the grievous loss he had suffered had been balanced by an at least equally great gift.  
  
Belegweth had died; but dying, she had given me the sweetest elfling in the world, and taking possession of my heart immediately, he had not allowed it to break. I could not have asked for a better reason to live on, to fight for – quite literally so, in fact, for what I had decided to do with Alagant, as it had seemed the most natural, even the only possible, thing to me, had not met with my friends' approval at once.  
  
"So frail and so little", Well-Armed had said with pity, contemplating my son that morning, "let us hope that he will survive until we can take him to his relatives."  
  
"What relatives?" I had whispered, my mind so blurred by the indescribable combination of conflicting emotions I had felt that I had not even understood what exactly she had meant at first.  
  
"Belegweth's family", Well-Armed had patiently said, "her parents and sister . . . . Even if her marriage did not please them, they will not refuse to care for her child now that he has no one else."  
  
"He has got me", I had protested, "and I do not need them to bring up my son."  
  
Well-Armed had stared at me quite incredulously. "You mean to – keep him?"  
  
"Are you seriously suggesting to me to abandon my child?!" I had hissed; angered by her rather insane suggestion to give this precious little creature to Belegweth's insufferable family, I would have preferred to yell those words into her face, but I had been sure that Alagant would not have liked to get acquainted with the less pleasant sides of his father's temper that early in his poor little life.  
  
"I am just suggesting to keep your child from certain death", Well-Armed had harshly replied. "If you try to bring up a motherless child alone, he will be dead within a month's time, at most! Is that what you want for your son?"  
  
"Now, do not quarrel", Half-Dead had chimed in, "perhaps it will not be all that bad . . . . Perhaps" – he had smiled at me, meaning to soothe me – "your parents-in-law will allow both you and the child to stay with them, and you will not have to leave him . . . ."  
  
"You do not even believe that yourself!" I had answered, staring down at the unfortunate elfling whose fate we had been discussing. "They would just take him from me, and there it would end."  
  
"They would care for him and give him a proper sort of home at least!" Well-Armed had repeated. "Better to lose your son to his grandparents than to lose him to death."  
  
"Stop it!" Seven, who had listened silently until then as was his habit, had suddenly said, and quite fiercely: "What you are suggesting" – and he had shot Well-Armed a glare apt even to silence a former princess of Nargothrond – "is, for all that we know, to give this child to an insupportable old hag, her henpecked husband and a silly young girl. Truly a brilliant plan! If we have fed five mouths before, we shall manage to do so now as well . . . . Do not listen to them, One-Eye! It is your decision to make, after all, and your son, who will need his father now, more than anything else."  
  
That had been a long speech for my quiet friend, and, given that he had lost his temper with me quite openly when he had learnt that Belegweth had been expecting a child, I had appreciated it even more than I would have done anyway.  
  
The following months, I had not even had the time to indulge in my grief; true enough, I had missed Belegweth, and I had wept secretly more than once, but my son had kept me too occupied to let those moments last too long.  
  
I could not believe that this sad archer had known any comfort of this kind, or had received much comfort at all. Someone who appeared so lonely even in company probably was lonely. Such sorrow, such loneliness . . . . I felt a surge of pity for my companion. A proud and strong warrior of Mirkwood he had seemed when we had first met, but now I felt as if protective armour had been removed and I had glimpsed a deep cut inflicted by a poisoned knife, and untreated still after so long a time, left to torture the soul it had marred . . . .  
  
It was probably a good thing that we had to think about our escape then, for if that had not been the case, I might have asked more questions than Tanglinna would have liked to answer or even to hear.  
  
In any case, the moment of closeness and understanding between us had made me more careless than I should have been; without much thinking, I gave away that I had understood what our captors had spoken among themselves, and doing so straightaway was a mistake. Taking into account in what sort of predicament we were in, it would not have been especially wise to inform my companion that a good friend of mine happened to be an orc and had taught me his language patiently over long years. Tanglinna was an elven warrior of some importance and probably not entirely unprejudiced towards orcs; if I admitted to being an orc's friend, he would instantly distrust me, and if we did not trust each other to a certain extent, we would never leave this cell alive.  
  
"I know some Eastern Orcish. Enough to understand what they said . . . ." I finally answered, and, in the faint hope to distract him from the thought why and where an elf had learnt any sort of Orcish, I added: "And it was not pleasant."  
  
"Eastern Orcish? *Eastern* Orcish!? What?!" Tanglinna did sound surprised, and it was probably not a good sign that he turned away from me for a moment as if to ponder what to do or even think now. At last, though, he met my gaze again and asked: "What did they say?"  
  
Relieved that the dangerous moment had passed, at least for now, I replied: "Well . . . . Apparently, Gurshak would like to . . . to . . ." Obvious as it had been what he had wanted not only from his words, but also from his behaviour, I found that I could not bring myself to say it, almost as if finding a word for Gurshak's wishes would have made them more real. Quite upset with myself for shying away from speaking the truth, I continued: "Oh, you know what he would like to do; I will not repeat that now!" Glad to be past this most uncomfortable moment, I summarized the rest of the goblins' conversation for Tanglinna.  
  
The things I had to relate brought a frown to his face. "You think I should what?" he enquired, sounding quite disgusted, whether mainly by my account of what our captors had talked about or by the suggestion I hade made earlier, I did not even want to know.  
  
Admittedly, my plan seemed somewhat embarrassing even to me, but an embarrassing plan was still better than no plan at all, and a few moments of feeling slightly ridiculous would not be too high a price for our freedom. So I explained: "You . . . you should pretend to comply with him, since he seems to have a certain . . . preference for you. As soon as you are rid of these chains, you can still fight him. Some smiles, some compliments, perhaps . . . ?"  
  
This specification of my suggestion was not met with instant approval, but with an expression of such horror and indignation that I would have taken more than one step back had I been able to do so. "What?! What!?!? I will NOT do any such thing! How could you suggest such a thing?! Smile?! Compliments!!"  
  
Still growling, he turned away again, apparently not ready to continue the conversation any time soon.  
  
I gave him a moment to recover from his outrage; then, I enquired: "Then, what do you suggest? We should better have a plan ready before he turns up here with his salve and plans to get you anyway, whether you like it or not . . . ."  
  
This provoked a fierce scowl at first, but, not surprisingly, no reply. Perhaps, he was trying to think of something, anything, that would prove how foolish and unnecessary my scandalous idea really was, but apparently, he reached no very helpful conclusion, for finally, he slumped in the chains with a sigh and murmured, sounding more defeated and desperate than ever: "I have never tried to seduce a goblin before. I wouldn't know where to begin . . . ."  
  
At least, he was ready to give this a try! I tried to give him an encouraging smile. "Oh, do not worry! I will help you . . . . You certainly know how to smile sweetly, and we will think about the right things to say now! He cannot be that different from other orcs, even if he is . . . unusual. "  
  
One thing was sure – my father was very right to call me a 'foolish elfling' more often than I liked to hear it. Tanglinna stared at me, not as much in amazement as in shock. "What did you just say? 'He cannot be *that* different from other orcs'? What are you talking about? How do you think he is different from other orcs? They are all the same!" The expression of his eyes changed a little then, puzzlement giving way to suspicion. "Where did you learn Eastern Orcish?" he asked, and I sensed that we were not dealing with each other on equal terms any more; the vigilant guard was back, questioning the criminal who had said something suspicious.  
  
I tried to look as innocent and open as possible, and what I said was not a lie. "I . . . I learnt it from . . . a friend." I might have gotten away with this, had I not suddenly felt the urge to defend that very friend against the stupid assumption that all orcs were the same, that someone as virtuous and compassionate as Seven should be the same as this abomination Gurshak and his friends. So I added, not wise enough to refrain from glaring: "And it is very wrong to believe that all orcs are the same."  
  
"And just who is this friend of yours? An orc?" Tanglinna asked with a derisive snort. "This is just wonderful." He shook his head, and his look told me that he either considered me as insane or suspected I had a sense of humor that he did not share at all.  
  
"He is an orc indeed," I replied, and, carried away a bit by righteous anger, I felt bound to add: "And the very best orc you can imagine . . .that is . . . better than you could ever imagine, quite obviously!"  
  
These angry words could have ruined the frail peace we had managed to establish between us, and, somewhat more calmly, I went on: "Listen . . . . He is really a good orc, kind, and wise, and noble . . . ." Realizing that this would probably not be enough to convince Tanglinna that Seven could be trusted and that I was neither insane nor indescribably wicked, I continued: "If he was not, I would never leave my child in his care, would I?"  
  
I should have known that this was not the perfect argument to prove my point.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*  
  
"You WHAT?! You left your child with . . .with . . .an ORC?!"  
  
My mouth sagged open in horror and disbelief at his statement and the shortest of explanations that followed. His child! He had left his child with an orc! That . . . that couldn't not be true! I knew what orcs did to helpless children!  
  
"You are insane," I murmured, staring at him with disbelieving eyes, wanting to see that he was indeed mad as I named him. What other possible explanation could there be for what he had just told me? But his clear grey eye was not that of one inflicted with such a mental malady. He looked perfectly calm . . . . Reasonable one might say, if the words he had said weren't so senseless.  
  
"How could you?" My voice was barely above a whisper, so strong was my dismay, my lack of comprehension.  
  
From earliest childhood, I had seen what orcs were – cruel, evil, and heartless; creatures that I knew I should pity for their wretched state, yet in my heart I could not move myself to feel merciful toward them. I had seen my sister Malhesie wounded dreadfully and filled with fear – something I had never seen her show before – all at the hands of orcs! Her throat had been cut by an orc before my eyes, when I was too young and helpless to aid her in any way. That same orc had left his mark on me . . . I bear his vile scar to this day, a constant reminder of what orcs could do to innocent children. Oropher, my king and friend, had died spitted on orc spears at Dagorlad. But the worst I had seen was when I had found my beloved Celair, killed by orcs, her life ended along with her father's and that of our son. I knew what orcs were, what they were capable of. And yet Alagaith had left his son in the care of one of these creatures, creatures that I knew were filled with only hatred and a lust for violence.  
  
"How could you?" I repeated, more to myself than to him. My brows knit with pain as an image, one burned into my memory forever that spring day so long ago, assailed me: the bodies of the last of my family lying drenched in their own blood on the floor of the talan I had built for Celair and me.  
  
I was not expecting an answer from Alagaith, so I was surprised when he spoke . . . and grateful as well, as his words turned my black thoughts from things I did not wish to dwell on, things I wished I could forget.  
  
"I trust him," he said simply with a shrug as if it were the most natural thing in the world to leave one's child with an orc. "And then, he has known Alagant since his birth, and Alagant likes him very well . . . . So what could possibly happen? That is, if your fellow warriors did not find the two of them by chance, shot poor Seven and captured my son . . . ."  
  
His face fell, his one eye filled with growing distress and unease. He gazed earnestly at me and said,  
  
"They would not harm a child, even the child of a thief, would they?"  
  
I stared at him in sheer amazement. How could he think such a thing? He abandons his child to an orc's care and wonders if elves would harm the child if found. . . . What sort of thinking was this? Backwards? Nonsense? I snorted.  
  
"Do not be ridiculous! They would never harm a child! How could you even think such a thing?"  
  
I continued to study his features for some sign of the madness that I had not seen before – surely it must be there! But all that was written on his too thin Noldorin face was concern, concern that we elves would hurt his son . . . and his friend . . . who was an orc . . . .  
  
I shook my head, unwilling to acknowledge –even to myself- that such a friendship could exist. And elf and an orc could not be friends! No! That is not the way of things, not the way it was meant to be! Orcs were evil! They were everything that we Firstborns were not, and because this Noldo had a strange and unnatural relationship with one, he thought elves were capable of evil. Why would he think that? Elves weren't evil! We were . . . we were. . . .  
  
A hated word, a cursed word, flitted through my mind: Nossdagnir – Kinslayer.  
  
Other memories surfaced then; no more pleasant than those that had preceded them. I had been only a few years older than when my sister had died; a youth still when evil had attacked Doriath, not in the form of Dwarves, no, not this time. Nor was it orcs. It had been elves. It was on that day I first learned what a Kinslayer was . . . it was on that day that I became one . . . Nossdagnir. What could one think at a time like that? We knew of evil in Doriath, but we had never experienced it in this form until the Sons of Feanor made war on Thingol's kingdom. So many had died that day, my parents among them. Yes, evil did wear many faces . . . . And children were the victims . . . . The names of Elured and Elurin flitted through my mind. . . . they had not been left to die alone and friendless by orcs to slowly starve to death as was reported to have happened, for they were never found . . . . Perhaps Alagaith's worries were not as insane as I had thought.  
  
Weariness swept over me, my thoughts were in utter chaos. If elves could commit evil deeds, do fell things whether through personal feelings or misguided words, then . . . could orcs then be good, kind, and trustworthy? My gaze dropped to the stone floor, so he would not witness my confusion.  
  
"Who are you?" I whispered, my voice barely audible. "What are you?"  
  
He could not be a mere Noldo. Surely, he was one of the Valar come to test me, and I feared I had failed miserably if this were the case. Or perhaps I had died at Erebor, and this was what my penance in the Halls of Mandos was to be. . . to have my personal failings and weaknesses laid all too clearly before me.  
  
Yet his voice, when he finally spoke to me, was quiet, filled with unexpected pain.  
  
"What do you want to hear now? I was quite certain that you knew well enough what to think of me."  
  
I hazarded a glance at him, only to find him contemplating the floor as I had been. If he hadn't sounded so dejected, I would have thought that he was mocking my thoughts, proving that he was a Vala. I could see by the way his shoulders slumped, the air of weariness that seemed to emanate from his slouched form, that he was as exhausted by this day and what it had brought about as I was. The needle twirled uselessly in his fingers.  
  
I felt a swell of pity for him, for he not only had the worry about what would befall us here in Gurshak's hideaway, he was distressed by what could be happening to his son, that he might perhaps be in grave danger though guarded by a trusted friend. How would I feel if it were my son?  
  
I closed my eyes, my head leaning back against the chill stone wall. What did I think of him? What? He was bold, disrespectful, sarcastic, a thief, robber of the dead. And yet. . . . He had shown himself to be caring, giving, selfless . . . a good father who had provided for the safety of his son when he could not be there. What did I think . . . .  
  
"It doesn't matter what I think," I said aloud, gazing at the stone ceiling above our heads. "I admit I don't know what to think anymore. I," I paused, glancing at him, truly trying to see beyond what I thought I knew about him, see who he truly was. A new confidence and peace filled me – most strange considering that our situation had not changed one bit in that we were still bound in a cell awaiting an unpleasant fate – and I straightened. "It doesn't matter, and . . . I hope that your son . . . an d your friend are well and out of harm's way."  
  
I studied him a moment longer, and when he gazed up at me, his feelings about my odd statement unreadable – perhaps he was in shock or wondering if I were merely mocking him – I laughed, not because I had gone mad myself as you might be thinking.  
  
"I am pleased to meet you, Alagaith Alagaerion," I said with a smile. I considered bowing to him like those ridiculous dwarves do, but thought that it would look rather silly since the chains would prevent me from a proper bow, and who knew what he might think of me laughing over not being able to introduce myself with the proper dwarvish movements. "I am Tanglinna Thindalagosion of Greenwood."  
  
TBC 


	7. Chapter 6 1001 Ways To Seduce A Goblin ...

Once again, Alagaith is busy printing out the reviews. "I think we owe the readers an apology in advance, Mordil...." he remarks.  
  
Tanglinna, who has watched him in silence until then, perhaps quite glad that he is not the one to deal with the wicked printer this time, raises one brow. "And why would that be, Linlote?" he enquires.  
  
Alagaith looks up. "We were not very succinct in earlier chapters, but in the one that is going to follow our responses today, well... We both sound a bit like young Brethil, I fear!" With a little sigh, he hands Tanglinna the new reviews.  
  
"You mean that some of us are rather...long winded?" the Master Archer replies, chuckling slightly. "I believe that it a Noldo trait."  
  
It is probably a very good thing that he does not elaborate that theory any further, but looks over the reviews instead: "I am very pleased to note that I am not the only one that thinks printers originated in Angband and were made solely to discomfit the people that must deal with them. kingmaker feels the same as does Miss Aranel....Oh yes." He clears his throat, then glances aside at Alagaith, who has waited for the end of this little digression with an amused little smile. "I will apologize for us. I am becoming quite adept at it."  
  
Facing the computer screen, Tanglinna continues: "I do most humbly apologize for the length of the following chapter. It would seem that certain elves, who will remain nameless at present, used more words than were necessary to tell the events described herein. It shall not happen much longer though as this tale is slowly nearing its conclusion. I do beg of you to be patient with those elves," – here, he gazes at Alagaith - "who suffer from the writers' form of Brethilitis." This little speech finished, he places his hand over his heart and inclines his head gracefully.  
  
Alagaith almost fails to hide a grin. "Precisely, Mordil, thank you...." Pointing to the reviews, he adds: "But there is work to do now. Look! Kingmaker kindly reminds us that you gave me permission to rob you.... I just realize that I have never actually done so! Please remind me to do so later...." He winks, but the smile that enters his face as he surveys the Master Archer's array is entirely too innocent and harmless.  
  
Tanglinna does not fail to notice that. "I fear that the offer has expired, Linlote. Too late! But I have to ask you...why can't we just do away with Slasher in the manner kingmaker suggested? It sounded good to me!"  
  
Now, Alagaith grins quite openly, replying: "You know very well that I cannot explain that now.... It has to do with the typical thinking of a skulking cutpurse, I believe." Leaning closer to Tanglinna, he whispers something into his ear, his grin widening.  
  
Tanglinna listens, finally answering: "Hm...of course...How could I forget? Some of us are just too vain! And you call ME the peacock!" He smirks slightly before he goes on: "That question - or at least a part of that - will be answered at a slightly later date. But I fear that I must set the record straight on one account. Karianua, you may most certainly hug Alagaith or me anytime you wish and you need not fear that we will...gut you. We are not nearly as scary in person as we seem...or at least *I* am not." He throws an appraising look at Alagaith with a grin.  
  
The Noldorin thief sighs yet again. "Hel must be right - we are truly living in two different worlds at times.... But why doesn't she understand that I was worried that your wood-elves might hurt Alagant? What if they had mistaken him for an orcling, or if they had shot first and thought then, or... No! I must not think about that even now..." As if to chase the haunting images that have come to his mind, he shakes his head.  
  
Tanglinna shakes his head as well, but for entirely different reasons. "And why would *you* think that elves - Wood-elves! - would think an elfling was an orcling? I have already reassured you on that point, Linlote! Please do not worry any more about it! Dis Thrainsdotter feels very sympathetic for you as well. We will just have to get out of the cell as she says! Everything will be fine...once...this chapter is over...or not...." With a little frown, he suddenly asks: "Are you sure this is how it is *supposed* to end?" Now he looks worried, even very worried, already forgetting that review responses need to be finished.  
  
Alagaith merely shrugs, feigning nonchalance. "Unfortunately, many things are not as they are *supposed* to be, Mordil... We should perhaps rather think about the question Lutris asked - what are we going to do now indeed?"  
  
Tanglinna's face reddens. "I believe that the chapter title sums it all up, Linlote... Venytuima at least seems to think that it might be 'incredibly amusing' to see me try to seduce an orc...obviously she doesn't think I can do it!" He cannot decide whether to look put out or to agree and ends up looking simply very uncomfortable.  
  
Alagaith chuckles. "But at least, WeasleyTwinsLover1112 promises to bow to your 'flirting greatness' if you manage to flirt with Gurshak successfully... So you will certainly receive much admiration!" He winks and is rewarded by a fierce glare.  
  
"I think I would prefer MekareQ's idea of 1. Grab a shovel 2. Find a way out." Tanglinna informs him. "Now if I HAD a shovel, we could simply have knocked Gurshak on the head and made good our escape! Much easier plan. Why did we not do that instead! Admiration! Ha! They will be laughing at me...just as Petit Faucon de la Fere did at my panic attack." He unhappily shakes his head. "This is a most distressing!"  
  
"However, her laughing at your panic attack does not stop her from thinking that we are great - that includes you!" Alagaith replies, grinning in order to make it less obvious to Tanglinna that he is trying to soothe him a little. "And the 'easier plan' would not have worked - there was no shovel, and even if there had been a shovel and we had managed to knock Gurshak on the head with it, we could not have reached the keys he was carrying.... And I shudder to think what sort of apology a disgruntled Gurshak would have asked for! Anyway, if you feel so mistreated and put upon, read Ptath's review... Are a hug and a box of chocolates for you not enough to comfort you a bit? Nobody has given me a box of chocolates so far..."  
  
"I know I can always count on Ptath!" Tanglinna exclaims, winking at Ptath and smiling; then he turns placating to Alagaith. " Karianua is giving us cookies and if you need to be soothed, poor Linlote, then I suggest you read UbiqutiousPitt's review. She has obviously lost her heart to you and is blushing over the thought of you! Granted, she commented on the length of our chapters...I think you will have to be very charming in this one to apologize for its...unusual size...." As if suddenly realizing what he is saying, he blinks. "I fear I just sounded like Katharine the Great there for a moment."  
  
"Oh yes, Katharine the Great..." Alagaith turns to face the reviewers. "Katharine, you should not mention Tanglinna and tequila in one breath! I know what mere orcish brandy can do to him - so I do not even want to imagine the possible effects of tequila..." Turning to look at Tanglinna again, he adds in a low voice: "And she is even more... inventive than Gurshak, as it seems."  
  
Tanglinna's eyes have narrowed dangerously. "Excuse me, Linlote...just what were you implying about the orcish brandy?"  
  
Of course, Alagaith smiles innocently at this. "Only that it can have most interesting effects on you... Nothing more. We don't want to tell the readers everything in advance, do we?"  
  
The Master Archer raises one brow imperiously. "Hm... yes, well, it seems that our sweet evil witch queen is determined that you realize how wonderful I am...risking myself to save you." He grins and waggles his brows, but then, his face darkens again and he glowers and mutters, "Orcish brandy indeed!"  
  
The skulking cutpurse only laughs. "As Marenvs says, you can be funny at times... And no, I will not explain what exactly I mean by that! - But it seems *I* have to apologize now... Not to you, but to Miss Aranel. But you see, Aranel, if I had not mentioned that cookie, Mordil might have continued to behave less than sensibly... So it was of vital importance to put words into your mouth!"  
  
Tanglinna stares at the Noldo, amazement and displeasure mingling on his face. "Is this a time when I should try to be funny, Linlote? I feel as though you have probably just insulted me...again." He frowns. "Miss Aranel, it appears, was as shocked as I to learn that you had a son. I do hope to meet him and your ... friends at some point, as Phoenix Flight asked. And speaking of children, daw the minstrel enjoyed the small part about children growing up as well. Your sweet elfling must be growing at a rather impressive rate." This time, he smiles genuinely.  
  
Alagaith returns the smile quite happily and stops himself just in time he can start an endless ramble about Alagant, or, as he might secretly put it, the most wonderful and amazing little elfling in all Arda. "Well... I suppose we should not discuss Alagant now, or this chapter will get even longer..."  
  
Tanglinna chuckles. "That is very true. Proud parents do like to talk...overly long at times...about their offspring. Hm, yes...as I do not speak German any better than I do Orcish, you had better translate Marenvs' review to me. There are decided gaps in my education, it seems...though why were we hiding in WeasleyTwinsLover1112's bed?" He raises one brow, then winks at WeasleyTwinsLover1112.  
  
Alagaith looks a bit puzzled. "Good question... We must have had too much of Katharine the Great's ale and tequila... Combined with the sugar in the cookies and chocolates and all, that may have caused us to do something inexplicable..." He shrugs, not seeming overly disturbed by whatever strange things may have happened in that situation.  
  
Tanglinna laughs. "I agree...too many sweet, forbidden things...." Frowning, he continues: "I fear that our reviewers are getting to me...I am not myself!" At that, he laughs again.  
  
Alagaith laughs as well. "On with the story now before we get ourselves into trouble by saying the wrong things!"  
  
Authors' Note – Anirathiel belongs to Lady Elleth. Noseless belongs to kingmaker and can be seen in his "Wings of the Storm"  
  
Chapter 6 – 1001 Ways To Seduce A Goblin by Alagaith Alagaerion  
  
Alagaith shot a rather puzzled look at me, his brow wrinkled in what looked like suspicion. I could well imagine that my sudden change of mood was perplexing, but then he smiled, probably coming to the conclusion that his companion was of a mercurial temperament and there was nothing he could do about it.  
  
"I am honored to make your acquaintance, Tanglinna Thindalagosion."  
  
I continued to smile at his proper greeting, wishing to put all thoughts of despair, hopeless, and sorrow behind us. They were not productive to our situation and that had to be foremost in my thoughts, which led my thinking back to something he had said before our conversation had taken such strange turnings.  
  
"You . . . you weren't serious earlier when you said I should . . . ." I cleared my throat, frowning. It would be hard merely to repeat it! I believe I managed to keep my voice level, my features neutral, but I cannot say for certain. "That I should . . . seduce Gurshak?"  
  
I knew well what he would say; I remembered it only too clearly. Perhaps I asked this to delay, though our time was fast running out. It was the time for action, but *what* action! What a suggestion!  
  
"I do not like the thought," he began a bit hesitantly, knowing my violent opposition to this proposition, "and admittedly I would like it even less if I were in your place." He smiled grimly at this pronouncement, yet he would not back down. "But if you do not feign compliance, he will . . . 'seduce' us, whether we like it or not . . . . If you fool him, you might get rid of those chains at least."  
  
Alagaith glanced at the black irons then, no doubt feeling keenly his failure to open them.  
  
I nodded slowly, seeing the wisdom of his words, though I did not like them at all – wise or not. But . . . if the chains were gone, there was a chance – a slim, fleeting chance but chance nonetheless – that I could do something to gain our freedom. I would risk just about anything for that. . . .  
  
"What . . . what would I do?" I flushed at this question, knowing how ridiculous it sounded, but I honestly could not say that I had much experience at seducing anyone, let alone a goblin! "You seem to know more about orcs than I do, so what would you suggest I do? I mean . . . . This is very strange."  
  
My voice sounded odd, not at all like it should. I shook my head. This was strange indeed and disconcerting and horrible!  
  
As I said, my experience at 'courtship', if one could put what he suggested into that category, was rather limited. I was never one who pursued females as some younglings did with such fervor and excitement. I had always held myself apart from this ritual of youth that was as much a part of life as breathing. I had an unnatural fear of allowing my heart to be lost to anyone. My greatest fear was that I would take someone into my life – into my heart – and I would lose them . . . and this is what happened . . . .  
  
I did not wish to dwell on those dark thoughts, too much depended on this ruse I must play. Courtship . . . . What did orcs do to entice their lovers? I had never thought of orcs having lovers or doing anything like what Alagaith was suggesting, so this was rather a stretch for my mind and not a pleasant one.  
  
I thought back to the time when I had first seen Celair and my heart was no longer safe. What had I done to win her love? I could have laughed at this, for I was the most inept of suitors that had ever been born! It had not begun well at all!  
  
It had been on a night when Oropher had proclaimed one of his grand feasts – a Wood-elf feast, outdoors on the grass beneath leafy branches and Elbereth's shining stars. It was a good time in Greenwood then, though the enemy's Shadow was growing since he had ensconced himself in Mordor. It was almost an act of defiance, these wild revelries in the night. Though we were aware of the danger that Gorthaur the Cruel presented to us, Oropher would not allow us to live in fear, hiding in the shadows like frightened children.  
  
A bonfire blazed in the clearing, music drifted upward as dancers twirled with abandon before the leaping golden flames; the scent of cooking foods – venison, breads, various small game birds, including the pheasants I had just brought back after my successful hunting trip. They were especially for Auriell, Oropher's lady-wife, as they were a favorite of hers. The delightful aromas made the stomach pinch with hunger and anticipation.  
  
I had gone to clean up after my day spent in the woods alone, then I returned to join the merriment, surveying it with pleasure for I knew that Oropher was very delighted to see his people enjoying themselves in such a manner. I moved to sit with Oropher and Thranduil as my king waved at me in greeting. Oropher's son barely noticed me for his eyes were following every graceful move his wife made as she danced before the fire. Thranduil's blue eyes were filled with joy, pride, and longing. I grinned, feeling very pleased that he was so happy and that he and Firithiel were trying to make things work between them. This is what Oropher had wanted for us: peace and happiness. This is why we had journeyed to the east, away from the 'corrupting influences' of the Noldor', as Oropher had said on more than one occasion with a wolfish grin.  
  
It was then, when I turned to comment on this to Oropher, that I was introduced to an elf that had just journeyed here, a survivor of Gondolin's fall who had decided to join us here in Greenwood after living in several places. His name was Riwmegor, a worker in metals and an expert at forging bladed weapons. He was a Noldo. . . .  
  
Oropher was, naturally, very pleased to have one skilled in this art. The elf was broad shouldered, his arms heavily muscled for an elf, but he was a smith and long days before the forge's fire, working bellows and hammer, had made his arms rather formidable. His dark hair was hanging down his back in a long tail as though he had just left his work.  
  
I greeted him cordially though his intensely blue eyes only briefly touched my own before sliding past me, no words of greeting passing his tight-lipped frown.  
  
I quirked a brow at Oropher over this rather rude behavior, but he merely chuckled, lifting his silver-chased goblet to his lips as he murmured in a low tone, "Noldo," as if that explained it all.  
  
I smiled at this. That did explain a lot. I was rather surprised that a Noldo would choice to live with we rather rustic "Wood-elves", but perhaps he was ready for the slower pace after living in the so-called greatest elven city on Arda. We had need of someone like Riwmegor here. Too many rumors of war and destruction had reached us here in our woodland fastness, so I didn't question too much why he had chosen to come this far to the east when the other elven realms were further west. . . and ruled by the Noldor.  
  
It was then that Oropher pronounced the words that would disrupt my life forever.  
  
"Riwmegor's daughter is there." He pointed toward the bonfire where the dancers were gathered. "She is with Auriell, Firithiel, Anirathiel, and Glaurhunant."  
  
I gazed in the direction of the fire and saw her, the one face I didn't recognize, face fire-lit, black curls gleaming with a ruddy cast.  
  
"Her name is," and here Oropher glanced at Riwmegor, who frowned slightly.  
  
"Faensigilceredir," the surly smith said in a low gruff voice. It had sounded as though he grudged us his daughter's name.  
  
"Exactly," Oropher said with a nod, his grey eyes gleaming impishly. "But she is most often called Celair. Much easier to remember!"  
  
Celair. . . . It meant brilliant, and brilliantly did she seem to burn that night to my eyes. I had never felt such a strong attraction to someone in my entire life, and I thought myself old enough to be past such foolishness and yearning. Elves my age did not fall in love! And yet, it seemed that I did not realize how lonely my life had been until that moment, that something had been missing, something that I needed to be complete.  
  
As the dance ended and Auriell, laughing with joy, had clasped Celair's hand in her own and lead her away from the fire, toward where we sat. I felt an odd surge of panic rising inside me and I stood hastily.  
  
The others stood as well as the ladies approached, Glaurhunant joining another group of unmarried maidens, who moved to stand near a group of young males, who were watching them with interest and smiles. Anirathiel gazed over at me, smiled slightly then moved away. She was a rather solitary creature, much like myself.  
  
Oropher kissed his wife's flushed cheek, murmuring something that made her smile as Thranduil greeted Firithiel with a smile, gentle words only for her, and a bold kiss on her lips. These feasts made everyone feel relaxed and, for a time, it mattered not if you were a Sinda king or common Wood-elf, formalities had been laid aside for the night.  
  
I turned away slightly as Oropher began to speak to Celair, only to find Riwmegor's eyes upon me, narrowed and filled with displeasure. Surely he could not sense my confusion of emotions!  
  
But before I could sort this odd behaviour out – his as well as my own - Oropher had taken Celair's hand and was introducing her to me. I turned slowly to face them, my heart pounding like a deer that had been chased for hours over fallen logs and down narrow forest tracks by a most unrelenting hunter.  
  
I never saw Luthien Tinuviel, the daughter of Thingol of Doriath, but I cannot believe that she was fairer than the sight before me that night.  
  
Celair's delicate face was tipped upward as she gazed at me, her lips as lush as rose petals curved in a smile, a tumble of raven-dark curls adorning her brow. It seemed to me that two stars must have fallen into her eyes, so lovely and bright they were.  
  
I do not recall what I said in way of greeting, but I do remember Oropher's sudden burst of laughter as he clapped me on the shoulder, causing my face to flush a brilliant crimson. How had he known what I was feeling, for surely his grey eyes were filled with the knowledge that his somber Master Archer was feeling . . .discomfited by this newcomer.  
  
The next few months were a strange time in my life, and when I finally stopped fleeing those troubling yet utterly wondrous feelings that I had for Faensigilceredir Riwmegoriell – literally fleeing whenever I saw her - the actual courtship began. There was one thing though that no one had told me. . . I would have to court her adar as well! I was never completely successful in that endeavor.  
  
I had started to leave small bouquets of seasonal flowers twined with wild morning glories – they were the exact color of her eyes – until I realized that Riwmegor had discovered my love offerings to his daughter and been discarding of them before Celair knew they were there. I had to grow bold in my pursuit of this most delightful prey and taken to leaving my flowers on her bedroom windowsill, stealing a look at her while she slept, blue eyes opened and serene as she walked the dreams of our people. She never knew that I carried this vision of her throughout my day, making it brighter and much happier than it would have been otherwise.  
  
In the early days of our budding relationship, I do not believe that I spoke overmuch. I had never been one given to flattery or compliments even when they are deserved, though Celair stole my breath away whenever I saw her. There were many shy, tentative touches and smiles exchanged, and I gave my full attention to every word that fell from her lips. . . that is, when Riwmegor wasn't glaring daggers at me and telling her to 'come away immediately'!  
  
I fear she was very patient with my ineptness at being a suitor . . . even if her adar made certain that our time of courtship lasted long beyond what would be considered the normal or reasonable amount of time. My intentions were quite clear, but no doubt Riwmegor had been hoping that Celair would come to her senses and tell this most unsuitable Silvan to leave her alone and go away forever. Luckily, she seemed to want me as much as I wanted her, much to her father's disappointment and my joy and amazement.  
  
Flowers, glances, touches, attentiveness, perseverance against incredible odds . . . .That is all I knew of courtship and seduction -that, and stealing moments away from angry adars. I was not a model of what a suitor should be at all! So how could Alagaith suggest I should be able to seduce a goblin? Clearly, he knew nothing of the matter. . . .  
  
~*~*~*~*  
What would I suggest to do? This was decidedly a good question! Glad enough that Tanglinna seemed ready to try to use my plan, at least, I had not given the practical side of it much thought until now, assuming that any elf who had been married at some point would remember enough of that time to know how to feign he was attracted by someone... Only that the 'someone' in question was a goblin – a male one, at that! – and, due to this, a creature my unfortunate companion knew little or nothing about . . . But did I know anything about Gurshak?  
  
Questionable as this may sound, I would not have hesitated for an instant had seducing a female goblin been what had to be done. I knew a few things about orcs in love with each other, perhaps enough to instruct an elf so well that a goblin lady would believe she had an admirer in him, but I was not sure at all what would have to be different if a goblin like Gurshak was concerned . . .But strange or not, a goblin he was, and some things simply had to apply to all orcs, whether they loved orc ladies or highly unwilling male elves.  
  
For a moment, I stood in thought, trying to remember what Seven had told me about orcish love a long time ago – and what I had observed in him, for he had been desperately in love at that time.  
  
Being the unlucky orc that he was, my friend had, of course, chosen the most inconvenient place and time to fall in love. and I probably need not even mention that he had also been extremely unfortunate in the choice of his adored one.  
  
It had been in the early years of the Third Age, when the remnants of Sauron's defeated troops had been roaming the lands in small or large bands, marauding, plundering, killing, outlaws more dangerous than we had ever been. Those had been troubled and insecure times, and bad times for us once again. In a town of humans, Well-Armed had been arrested for theft and had been imprisoned there to stand trial, and a few days later, I had managed to get wounded in a fight with some ordinary village guard – and had, somehow, caught a cold at the very same time. Do not believe people who tell you that elves never get ill! It may be true that elves are somewhat more resistant to disease than other people, but unlucky circumstances, for example malnourishment or exhaustion, can bring about situations in which such general rules do hardly apply any more.  
  
I had been in a fever soon enough, and apparently, my state had been bad enough to let Seven and Half-Dead decide that the damp, cold cave near said town where we had been staying to await the outcome of the trial had not been a place for me, and thus, I had been taken to Noseless to be cared for.  
  
Noseless – lacking a nose, as his nickname indicated, but equipped with a past so tragic that it could have made the heroes of ancient tales envious – had managed to do what all of us secretly dreamed of now and then; after having been an outlaw for years, he had become honest again, thankfully not too honest to consider us as friends.  
  
It would lead too far now if I tried to relate all of his story; suffice to say that, after having gone through grievous loss and captivity, he had joined us for some time and had then been 'adopted' by the family of an elven wood-turner, who had often been kind enough to offer us help and shelter earlier, or, more specifically, by the wood-turner's daughter, barely ten years old by that time and so fiercely fond of Noseless that he had almost become her second father.  
  
The first three days of my stay with Noseless and his friends had been calm and uneventful, a row of long hours spent sleeping, coughing, feeling very unwell and sipping the concoctions of herbs, wine and indefinable ingredients Noseless had made me drink; for apart from being skilled at working with wood, carving useful items as well as elegant ornaments with equal ease, Noseless knew much about herblore.  
  
In the afternoon of the fourth day, Seven had visited, and I had known that something was not as it should have been from the very beginning – that is, from the moment I had woken to find Noseless and Seven standing by the makeshift bed I had hardly left during those days, Noseless just nudging the orc, asking with what came closest to impatience in him: "Seven, are you listening to me at all? You can have him back in a week, he will be fine then!"  
  
"Oh . . . yes", Seven had only replied, so absentmindedly that I had feared at first that something bad had befallen Well-Armed in her captivity, but Seven had assured us that all was well and had only told me what had really happened when Noseless had left us alone.  
  
After having enquired how I was feeling and having listened to my answer with a lack of interest that was as noticeable as uncharacteristic, he had finally asked: "Have you heard about that band of roving orc mercenaries?"  
  
There had been rumours about a handful of bedraggled orc warriors roaming the woods close to the place where Noseless lived indeed, and during the last three days, I had heard enough about them, for our poor friend – remembering only too well that an orc attack on a lone homestead had cost him his family and his freedom long ago – had collected every bit of information that had been available, doubtlessly ready to grab his bow and knives and face a whole orc-horde on his own if it was necessary to protect his new family.  
  
"At present, they are in a clearing, no more than an hour from here", Seven had continued, and when I had started, worried that this might mean indeed that we were in for an attack, he had hastily added: "Do not worry – old Zarkush leads them. I knew him at Angband, and while he is not overly kind and not an elf-friend, he is too wise to risk the few warriors he has for what is to be found in a house like this... Noseless and his friends are safe. But . . . ."  
  
"But?"  
  
Seven had blushed – thus disproving all theories about the utter blackness of orc-blood – and had been most unwilling to say more, until he had finally gathered all courage. "There is a lady called Tarchna among them", he had said, and then, the words had come out in a torrent, a wild, halfway incoherent story about Seven running into some orcs he had known long ago on his way here, about accompanying them to their camp for a brief chat, a lady agreeing to prepare some tea – judging by Seven's state, it had rather been some sort of love potion! – for them, and . . . . Well, the rest had been a most flowery description of lovely Tarchna.  
  
I had listened in silence, forcing myself to stay awake, and finally, when Seven had ended, cheeks flushed, a happy smile playing around his lips, I had asked, dreading the answer: "Do you think you could join them?"  
  
Seven had shaken his head. "Hardly . . . .They are warriors, selling their skills with blade and bow – of what use would I be to them?" With this, he had glared at his right hand, once certainly a very able archer's hand, now lacking three fingers and not even having two entirely good ones, for even though the damage done to his index finger in a battle long ago had not been great enough to cause it to be removed, it was stiff now and still bore scars.  
  
"You wield a scimitar well enough", I had objected.  
  
"Well enough to teach a student that surpassed me after a month or two", Seven had snorted, but with a small chuckle. "No – they will not need me, and in these bad times, they will know better than to burden themselves with a cripple. But they plan to spend the winter in these parts, before they move farther east, and perhaps..." He had not finished the sentence, but his hopeful smile had told me enough.  
  
Seven had left again that evening, but he had returned the following day, confessing to me with a somewhat guilty look that he had told Half-Dead that I was so ill that staying with me was a necessity.  
  
At that point, I had assumed that Seven had not told Half-Dead the truth out of fear to seem callous and careless if he simply spent his time courting a lady while poor Well-Armed was in serious trouble, so I had not wondered too much about this strange and highly untypical lack of truthfulness.  
  
The following days – a week and a half – had been somewhat unusual, but not really unpleasant, for I had never seen Seven so happy and merry before. He had never been one to hasten things, and I had grown used to seeing him sit in quiet thought for long hours; but at the same time, he had always been surer of his heart's counsel than anybody else I had ever known, and when time was scarce, he knew to decide and act swiftly.  
  
Perhaps he had sensed that, even though the orcs planned to spend the winter nearby, many things able to separate him from Tarchna could occur, and she may have been aware of the same; the lives of roving mercenaries or robbers of the dead are not secure and sheltered enough to allow to plan ahead for months or even years, and thus what might have happened in long weeks under other circumstances had happened in those few precious days of shared thoughts and smiles.  
  
I had learnt more than I had ever thought of learning about the orcish idea of love and beauty in this short span of time, for Seven, in his merry excitement, had been only too willing to tell me more things than my aching head had been comfortable with and had even made me the judge of his love songs – for, if you should have been in any doubt considering this question, orcs do sing, and not less well than elves, at least not if they have as flawless a voice as Seven.  
  
The poems he had made for those songs had been nothing special, for in his better days, he had been an archer, not a minstrel; but sung to a pleasant tune, the lack of originality hardly mattered.  
  
Truth to tell, some of them had even been quite haunting; when I stood in that cell, glancing over at Tanglinna and desperately asking myself what kind of advice I could give him now, one of Seven's songs kept coming back to my head, even though I valiantly tried to chase the silly ditty from my mind:  
  
No light from darkness springs, you say;  
  
yet night-hued eyes like stars can shine.  
  
From night is born the fair new day,  
  
soft shimmer from a black braid's line.  
  
And dark hands, raven-swift, did light a flame of love, strong, pure and bright.  
  
Night-hued eyes, black braid, dark hands . . . . Perhaps there was some kind of use in this verse, after all; it did list the things an orc would comment on to compliment a beloved person, I knew this well enough, for Seven had explained the great importance of these characteristics – lovely dark hair, shining eyes and, above all, elegant hands – to me back then, sighing a little when he had contemplated his own hands.  
  
"Tarchna's eyes will not find much beauty here", he had said with something bordering on disgust.  
  
"Marred beauty remains beauty", I had replied with an encouraging smile. "My father used to say that you only know whether a house is really well built and good if it is still beautiful when it is in ruins."  
  
"Elves and their sayings!" Seven had snorted, shaking his head, but perhaps secretly pleased. "But even if this" – he had lifted up his maimed hand – "was more beautiful in itself, that would not be of much help. Look at this!" His good hand had angrily pulled the loose braid he wore his hair in over his shoulder. "This is but a sad excuse for a proper braid! Now, if I had ten nimble fingers, I might do something about it . . . ."  
  
"And you call me vain!" I had murmured. "Turn your head, foolish orc!" I had woven his dark hair into a very intricate braid then, a somewhat elvish one, perhaps, but if Tarchna had noticed that detail, she had not been too displeased by it; as I had been told later, the evening the lovers had spent together that day had been a good one... The last good evening, as far as Seven and Tarchna had been concerned, for the next morning, we had received the visit of a fairly angry orc.  
  
It had been a good – no, a very good! – thing that Noseless and the wood-turner had gone hunting very early that day, for if they had been present, the whole affair could have ended in bloodshed, as the visitor had rather been menacing than polite – so menacing, in fact, that the wood- turner's wife had placed herself in front of her daughter protectively and that I had cursed the fact that my sword had been on the far side of the room.  
  
Imagine the door of a peaceful cottage being kicked open by an orc-boot, a warrior orc, half a head taller than me – and I am not exactly a small elf – bursting into the room with the force and violence of a thunderstorm, grabbing Seven by the collar and starting to shout at him in an indescribable mixture of the Common Tongue, Eastern and Western Orcish! Due to this jumble of languages, I had had some difficulties following the charming visitor's impressive speech, but apparently, it revolved around the grim statement that an orc who was a cripple, an elf-friend, a coward, an outlaw and a disgrace in general could prepare to die a slow and very painful death if he ever dared go near Tarchna, said visitor's beloved daughter, again.  
  
I had tried to intervene, but had refrained from doing so when Seven had hissed at me that this was none of my business, not sounding angry at my meddling, however, but rather worried, even scared.  
  
Tarchna's father had finally ended his tirade – ". . . .and do you remember what I did to that elf back in the mines who had stolen that loaf of bread? If I see you near her again, you are in for the same, only that it will last twice as long!" – pushing poor Seven back quite hard against the nearest wall and turning to storm out of the house again, apparently not in a much improved mood.  
  
After he had left, we had stood in silence for a moment or two, and glances heavy with questions unasked and answers held back had been exchanged – but before either of us (or the poor woman and her child) had recovered enough from this strange scene to utter but a single word, the door had been opened again, most cautiously this time, and Half-Dead, sword in hand, had peered in, pushing the door fully open with a sigh of relief, exclaiming: „So you are all well! I . . . .This may have been foolish of me... but I saw Buzrak leave, and I thought . . . I thought . . . ."  
  
Seven had bent his head as if in defeat, and I had blinked quite a few times, hardly noticing Well-Armed, who had entered the room as well, a bit pale and battered, but obviously free again.  
  
"You are in love with – Buzrak's daughter?" I had finally asked, and at Seven's unhappy nod, Half-Dead's sword had clattered to the ground, and I had sat down on the bed, hardly able to believe that Tarchna, lovely, gentle Tarchna who had managed to conquer Seven's heart, was indeed the daughter of Buzrak, the very same Buzrak who had been a captain of the guards in the mines of the north and had treated both Seven, his subordinate, and Half-Dead, who had been a prisoner there for a long time, much worse than he had treated Seven that day . . . .  
  
I wish I could say that this story had a happy ending, but – alas! – it had none.  
  
I forced my thoughts that had lingered on this old story for far too long a time back to our present predicament and the use we could make of my scant knowledge of what words a goblin would consider as flattering and alluring. Gurshak seemed to waste a lot of time and effort on his hair, so complimenting it could not be wrong, and I was sure that he took great pride in those perfectly manicured hands as well . . . .  
  
But before we moved on to those charming details, we would have to come up with an explanation for a contradiction so obvious that even Gurshak would notice it – why would an elf who had fought madly to keep an orcish admirer away until now suddenly show himself docile and compliant, even eager to respond to the dreaded goblin's advances?   
"Very well", I said, turning to look at Tanglinna again, "first of all, we need an explanation for your apparent change of mind. That goblin may be... strange, but he does not seem like a complete fool to me." I tried to hold his gaze when I continued, well aware that this was a critical moment: "You must know that . . . to an orc . . . .elves are what orcs are to an elf . . .usually. So try to think like what you would imagine an orc desperately in love with an elf to think like! You will tell him that you have always loved him, but that you felt entirely unworthy of his great love, because you know what an appalling, ugly creature you are."  
  
Tanglinna stiffened slightly, but it was already worth a lot that his answer to my suggestion did not consist in an angry retort. "I don't know if I can do that," he replied, sounding as if he was well aware that he had no choice but to try. "This is very difficult. What makes you think I can convince him that I am in love with him when all I have done is . . .well, rebuffed him and told him that I don't want his advances? Why would he believe me?"  
  
He did have a point; we had to embellish his sudden change of heart a little to make it believable. But I was quite sure that one thing would work in our favour – for all his unwillingness to realize that Tanglinna did not want his approaches, and for all the unnaturalness of his desires, he had not seemed like someone deriving his greatest pleasure from the fear and pain of others, as Uglash probably did. No, Gurshak did not want a broken and thoroughly disgusted elf – he would prefer a compliant and willing one. The story of the Sindarin apple thief that his companions had alluded to seemed to offer some hope in that respect – apparently, Gurshak had treated that elf well enough even though he had not yielded to his desire . . . .  
  
Thus, I replied to Tanglinna's helpless question: "Never forget one thing - he will want to believe you, so if you are only halfway convincing, his wishful thinking will do the rest. You will tell him that you did not want to make him unhappy, for a noble, fair goblin loving as vile a creature as an elf is unheard of . . . but that your feelings are simply too strong now, that . . . hmm . . . the touch of his gentle hands was too lovely a feeling . . . ." With a little grin, I added: "Say nice things about his beautiful hands - hands are important!"  
  
Apparently, I was asking a bit too much of the unfortunate archer when I expected him to adapt his thinking to the orcish concept of beauty and courtship – he stared at me in what could only be described as unabashed, repeating: " ' The touch of his gentle hands was too lovely a feeling'?!"  
  
Perhaps it was a good thing that I did not understand the words he muttered then; I could well imagine that he was either cursing me, or this whole wretched predicament.  
  
Finally, he looked up again, and, to my mild astonishment, he did ask a useful and surprisingly open-minded question: "Why are hands important?"  
  
"Well . . . . Eyes, hair and hands are what make a beautiful orc." I explained, chuckling a little when I realized how strange it would sound to him that I spoke of 'beautiful' orcs – we are far too used to seeing them all as ugly and repugnant. "So think about some nice compliments for his shining eyes and his hair soft as black silk as well! But, honestly . . . . An Orcish love poem would start describing the hands of the loved one, and hands are also very useful for certain gestures . . . .It is a pity that your hands are chained - if they were not, you might express your . . . invitation to him more clearly." I was merciful enough to refrain from showing him how he would have had to place his fingers in an elegant gesture of signaling. . . interest, although Seven – sighing over his lost fingers again – had explained a lot about such unobtrusive little hints. Orcs are true masters of speaking without words at times, and perhaps Seven is right when he tells me – with an exasperated sigh – that a people calling themselves Quendi and relying rather too much on spoken utterances can seem rather uncultured to a refined orc at times. However, I am straying from the story I am supposed to tell yet again!  
  
Tanglinna blinked in amazement, still looking slightly horrified, but finally, taking a few deep breaths, he slowly nodded. "Maybe he will free my hands and I could strangle him," he growled rather quietly, but then, with a wry grin and a further nod, he promised: "I will compliment his hands, eyes, and hair . . . .Valar help me! I will try to anyway. What if that doesn't work? I mean, have you seen this done that you know it works?"  
  
"I had to listen to the sighs and poems of a lovelorn orc for about . . . ." I replied with a sigh, and, realizing how this had to sound to an elf who had an unwanted orcish admirer, I quickly added: "No, he was not in love with me, ere you ask! He only informed me about every tiny detail of the orcish concept of courtship and love so that I could judge the poems and songs he was making for his lady, as no one else would listen to him . . . ." A wicked little thought brought a sudden grin to my face: "But I have to warn you - had it not been for certain tragic circumstances, the whole matter would have resulted in marriage! And he was an archer, too, originally, at least, so your cases might be remotely comparable."  
  
If I had hoped to lighten the atmosphere a little, I had chosen the wrong approach. Tanglinna stared at me in horror yet again. "You mean to tell me that Gurshak will think I want to MARRY him?!" he finally stammered, and then, his voice seemed to fail him. I could only guess what thoughts were assaulting his mind at that moment, but they were obviously most terrifying; my poor fellow prisoner gulped for air as if in massive shock, and when he finally managed to speak again, there was an edge of panic to his voice: "This will never work! This will never work! I cannot do this! I cannot do this!"  
  
As if to shut out this nightmarish world, he closed his eyes and murmured between gritted teeth, rather addressing himself than me: "I have to do this...there is no other way to get out of here."  
  
It was almost painful to watch his inner torment, his barely masked fear of the unthinkable that he would have to invite to give us at least a fleeting chance to escape, and it would have been the right time for a few kind words of comfort and encouragement now, but I closed my mouth again when Tanglinna opened his eyes to glance at me, his gaze so dark and feral that I felt decidedly uncomfortable.  
  
"If this does not work, you will be very sorry," he said in a very quiet, but deadly voice that made me wish to recoil. "If that goblin thinks I want to marry him because of this and we are not FREED immediately and he is not lying dead on the floor, then you will be VERY SORRY!"  
  
I had waited for the end of his outburst as calmly as possible; years of sad experience with situations in which looking scared would have been fatal had taught me to put on an impassive face in such cases. "I suppose I will be sorry, yes", I replied at last, hoping that he would understand that I was not mainly thinking of myself, as his warning had implied, but concerned about him as well, "and I hereby apologize in advance, in case my plan proves to be a bad one."  
  
My words seemed to soothe Tanglinna's anger a little, but as if it had been all that had kept him upright, he slowly sagged in his chains now, shaking his head and finally turning to glare at the barred window behind which they way to freedom lay. "It will have to work," he said, eyes intent. "We have no other choice . . . ." With a sigh, as if he did not really like to say what he wished to add, he went on: "It won't be your fault if it doesn't work . . .not entirely anyway. I cannot believe this . . . .I am a very bad liar . . . .Thranduil has told me so on many occasions . . . .I only hope that you are right in your assertion that this goblin will hear what he wants to . . . .Hands, eyes, and hair . . . hands, eyes, and hair . . . ." He gazed at me so mournfully that I might have given him a comforting hug had it only been possible. "I . . . will do my best . . . ."  
  
I tried to give him an encouraging grin. "I am sure you will, and you will certainly be most convincing" – I did hope so indeed! – "and if you direly need a break, signal to me and I shall think of something." The strange ideas that our most peculiar situation brought to my mind made me laugh. "I could interrupt the lovely conversation, complaining loudly that you are being disloyal, then you will only have to lean against Gurshak tearfully and beseech him to protect you from that elven brute... He will love the situation and refrain from asking too many questions."  
  
Of course, my attempt at humour was not received with laughter; Tanglinna looked quite shocked yet again, but finally, he seemed to realize that I had not been entirely serious and smiled rather weakly. "You seem to understand him better than I do, I will give you that", he remarked; I refrained from pointing out that this was a rather questionable compliment. "I may just have to take you up on your offer for assistance. I don't know how long I will be able to play this role . . . .Are you . . .are you certain that I am not dreaming this? It seems entirely too unreal to be true."  
  
For a moment, there was such a hopeful look on his face that I felt doubly sorry that I had to rob him of this kind illusion. Doing so in a half-jesting manner seemed best to me – but unfortunately, my success was greater than intended.  
  
"I hope I do not have to use this to convince you that this is very real indeed!" I said, holding up the needle that was still between my fingers, and amused by the memory how Alagant had once turned one of my mending needles into a sword for a tiny wooden warrior Half-Dead had carved for him, I tried to assume a fencing stance. Admittedly, I should not have forgotten about those chains . . . . Suffice to say that I ended up looking and feeling equally ridiculous. Oh well. Had I not intended to make Tanglinna laugh, anyway? Apparently, I had succeeded.  
  
"No, put your blade away, my lord. I don't want you sticking me with any dwarf swords today", he finally said, still chuckling slightly. "Perhaps you could frighten Gurshak away with that . . .impressive fighting stance of yours. That would certainly make things much easier."  
  
I guess he meant no harm; what I had done had been silly, and it had certainly looked even more laughable than it had felt, so why should he have refrained from mocking me? But this had been a most unpleasant day so far – in fact, each and every one of the last few days had been unpleasant . . . . It had cost me an effort to keep fear and anguish from surfacing too openly until now, and I felt weary enough to be more sensitive to taunts and jests than usual. Tanglinna's words seemed like open derision at that point – did he doubt that I was an able warrior?  
  
"I do know how to use a blade!" I snapped, glaring at him, and the realization that I had probably sounded like an offended child did not make me feel any better.  
  
Tanglinna blinked a little, obviously taken aback, and he came close to apologizing yet again. "I did not mean to imply that you did not . . . "he answered, but as if he had suddenly decided that he did not have to humour the irritated would-be swordsman next to him, he went on, raising one brow in challenge: "Though if you wield a larger blade as well as you did this smaller one . . .well, I suppose we will have to rely on my . . . skills at seduction as you planned."  
  
Well, if he wanted a feud, he could have one! "If your skills at seduction are as charming as your sense of humour, we can bury all hope!" I quipped back, angrily putting the needle back into its case and storing the case in my pocket, next to Alagant's warg, where it belonged.  
  
Tanglinna snorted slightly, turning away from me. "You are probably just putting me up to this to amuse yourself", he replied. "Well, fine. I hope you enjoy this little scene that we will play out on this dismal stage for regardless of what you think about me, I will try to get us out of here . . .regardless . . . ." He glared at the far wall.  
  
I was about to reply something not altogether friendly about not being impressed by his oh-so-noble attitude, since he had started this quarrel, but a noise interrupted me before I had quite started to speak – a noise on the other side of the door, steps drawing near, a key turning . . . . It appeared that someone was going to pay us a visit.  
  
"Good luck!" I whispered.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*  
I turned to look at the window once more at his hissed words, my heart pounding suddenly, adrenaline rushing through my body. My eyes widened in horror as I thought, ~ It is too soon! I am not sufficiently prepared for this! ~  
  
"Hair, eyes, mouth . . . . No! Hair, eyes, ears . . . . No!" I was struggling to breathe properly, recall what Alagaith had instructed, what I should compliment, but when the door swung open and Gurshak entered the cell, with a smile on his face, a small jar of something in one hand, I could think of nothing that I had been told to do! Ai, Valar! His eyes flicked to Alagaith first, and then moved to me.  
  
"I h-hope y-you are n-not too uncomf-fortable?" he asked in a most pleasant tone, his smile turning very – sweet! – as he moved into the cell and slowly approached us.  
  
I stared at him in horror. This was never going to work! So I dropped my head, staring intently at the floor, trying to order my thoughts into submission.  
  
"It . . .it is . . . ." I swallowed in a too dry throat, trying to look uncomfortable – I am sure I succeeded in this at least! - "It is not very comfortable at all," I finally managed to stammer. "I . . . I . . . ." I looked up then, berating myself for my cowardice as I forced my eyes to his, laboring to keep my face devoid of the surge of distressing emotions. "I am glad you have finally come . . . for us."  
  
I attempted to smile at him, but felt it must surely seem more like a snarl for dark, murderous thoughts were flitting through my mind as he moved to stand entirely too close to me.  
  
He looked puzzled, almost worried. I was not convincing him! I knew this was a bad idea! Why had I agreed to this madness! But then he spoke, moving closer still. I could not prevent the slight movement – very slight indeed as the wall was at my back – away from him.  
  
"U-uglash has not h-hurt you, h-has he, m-my s-silver-haired l- lovely? He m-may not do that! D-do not w-worry – it will n-not happen again!"  
  
I wished he would not call me that! 'My silver-haired lovely'! He had no right to call me that! He -! That is when he touched me, patting my head in what one might mistake for a paternal caress, only then his hand slide down my braid, a small sigh escaping his lips as he drew it over my shoulder, seeming to admire it.  
  
My hair was not braided in the too intricate 'battle' braid any longer, just a loose plait to keep it out of my face. It was no longer so neat either, but rather bedraggled after our spill into this hole, small twigs and pieces of leaves and dead grass adorned it.  
  
Gurshak began to remove this debris, bit by bit. What was he doing?!  
  
Then, to my horror and disbelief, he eased the piece of leather cording that held my braid in place and began to unbraid it.  
  
I grimaced, cringing slightly as his fingers worked to loosen my hair. He did not know how fortunate he was that my hands were not free and that I had no weapon at hand or he would have no fingers left to run through my hair!  
  
"I . . . no," I said in a belated answer to his question, hoping to distract him from what he was doing without my permission. "Uglash has not hurt me . . . but . . . ." I forced myself to look at his face. His eyes were still on my hair, most of which he had worked free of the braid by now. Soon it would all be unbound. This did not please me . . . .  
  
"I do not understand why . . . how you can find someone like me. . . worthy of you attentions," I said in a tightly controlled voice. This was the only thing Alagaith had said that I could now recall, as I remembered thinking at the time that I had actually felt that way with Celair . . . or maybe because Riwmegor had said it so often within my hearing.  
  
I dared to glance over at Alagaith, wondering if my rather pitiful –highly unbelievable, I feared – performance was at least half-convincing as he said it only had to be. He nodded slightly and smiled encouragingly, though I fancied I saw just a hint of skepticism in his gaze. I would have to do better!  
  
Gurshak, as if to attest to my poor acting skills, looked very puzzled.  
  
"W-what do y-you m-mean by that?" he asked "You are v-very pretty! Y-you invite s-such attentions, y-you k-know."  
  
My eyes widened at this statement. I *invited* them?! I most certainly did not! I did not invite anything from anybody! But then the last of my hair was free of the confining braid, falling over my chest to hang just past my waist, completely unbound. I ground my teeth together reminding myself sharply that there was too much at stake here for any missteps on my part regardless of what I wanted to tell this goblin!  
  
The only time my hair had ever been free from any restraints in my adult life –braids, clasps, tails – was when Celair and I were alone, enjoying those rare moments of privacy between married people. It had become almost a ritual for her to undo my braids, untying the small colorful cords that bound my hair, her fingers working the strands free, a knowing smile of pleasure on her face.  
  
But for all my noble intentions, when Gurshak buried his hands, sighing happily, in my hair, I made an odd noise. His hands were in my hair! His hands war in *my* hair!!! I had to do something!  
  
"I . . . I . . . Your . . . .Your hands," I began rather eloquently, thinking, ~Ai! They are in my hair! Your hands are in my HAIR! ~ "They are so soft," I growled, keeping my eyes, which had narrowed dangerously – something entirely beyond my control, I assure you! – on a space just past his shoulder. "And lovely," I finished in a hiss, grimly thinking that it would be so *easy* to bite off those most offending fingers for touching me in this intimate manner! "I . . . I have dreamed of your hands," I continued, now trying to focus my mind on what Alagaith had said, for therein lay our only chance of getting out of this rapidly deteriorating situation, "touching me." I could feel my lips twist in disgust at these very untrue words, revulsion and rage warring within me. I knew that my outrage and horror must show all too well. This was no dream – it was a nightmare! I turned once more to look at my 'teacher'.  
  
Alagaith's look showed me that he at least seemed to understand what I was enduring, but then he gently shook his head at me and mouthed, "Smile!" and he did. . . . Why did not *he* seduce this beast if he thought it was so easy?!  
  
Gurshak spoke again, seemingly oblivious to the tension and turmoil . . . or perhaps he mistook my tension for something else.  
  
"Y-you ne-never s-said a w-word when w-we met earlier . . . .B-but better n-now than n-never!"  
  
I was steadfast refusing to look at him, for I could tell that he was incredibly willing to believe that I was sincere. I knew his eyes were upon me, but I would not met them!  
  
"Is it n-not right l-like this?" he murmured. Perhaps he did sense that something was not right. Not right at all!  
  
He released my hair, but I felt his hand move to caress my cheek in what could only be called a most suggestive manner, an . . . invitation. Valar! I had succeeded *too* well!  
  
I drew several deep breaths, fighting down the urge to bit his fingers off and spit them on the floor at his feet before kicking him HARD between the legs. This would have been impossible as my ankles were shackled, but I could not prevent the small measure of satisfaction that this thought brought me.  
  
I forced my lips into what might pass for a smile, unless you happened to look into my eyes, which I kept downcast.  
  
"Yes," I answered him at last through tightly clenched teeth. "It is. . . very right like this."  
  
My lips remained in that twisted smile/snarl as my thoughts grew more murderous – not all of them directed at Gurshak. . . no, some were directed at a certain Noldo with one eye!  
  
Gurshak did smile once more, gently cupping my chin and forcing me to look at him. It appeared that Alagaith were correct in his assumption that I did not need to be very convincing. The gleam in the goblin's eyes was all that I needed to see to realize that he was convinced. . . entirely.  
  
"Only n-new, that is it, i-isn't it?" he murmured in a low tone, probably meant to be soothing and filled with reassurance. "B-but w-we w- will have all th-the t-time w-we n-need n-now to g-get acquainted a b-b-it b-better . . . ." He sighed wistfully, and the look of anticipation in his eyes grew. His index finger lazily traced my cheek as he continued in a low voice, "It is a p-pity th-that I c-cannot t-take you t-to a m-more p- pleasant room. . . .But Uglash and Th-Thrakush are t-too worried, because of th- the w-war . . . . H-however, it h-hardly matters, d-does it?"  
  
He leaned closer, his face now mere inches from my own, my head pressed against the unyielding wall – there was no place for me to flee to! – and he smiled at me slowly. . . seductively. . . .  
  
I made another small sound, like a trapped animal that sees the hunter approaching; arrow nocked for the kill. I lost control of my breathing at that point, for it was suddenly coming in desperate pants, but . . . this only seemed to excite Gurshak more for his eyes widened, his mouth opening. What was he thinking!? NO! I did not want to know!  
  
"It . . .it does not matter where . . .where," I began, trying to think of something that might make him take just one step back – away from me! But then his wandering finger moved over my jaw to my lower lip. I made yet another sound and stammered hastily, "Where we are as long as you are here with me!" Undoubtedly, it sounded more like "whereweareaslongasyouareherewithme!" so quickly did those words flee my trembling lips that were being assaulted by his finger. I yanked my head around to glare at Alagaith. This was all HIS fault!!!!! It was working TOO WELL and now what was I supposed to do?!!?  
  
I felt Gurshak's hands on my face and he turned my head so I was facing him once again. His eyes were brilliant, cheeks flushed in a rather alarming manner. The chains holding me rattled as a tremor of horror shook my body. His eyes were on my lips!  
  
"M-my s-silver-haired l-lovely!" he cried in a moment of ecstasy, and he leaned in closer.  
  
His eyes were on my lips! MY LIPS! That could mean only one thing! And this was NOT part of the plan!!  
  
HE WAS GOING TO KISS ME!!!!!!!  
  
~*~*~*~*  
  
In the first few moments after Gurshak had entered the cell, I still had some hope that everything would go as planned, but then, a lot of things went wrong, very wrong, to be precise, and I fully realized how insane and dangerous my brilliant plan actually was when Gurshak mentioned that he would not be able take Tanglinna to a different room – that probably meant that he was not going to unchain him, either, and that meant that the archer would be utterly helpless, condemned to suffer unwanted caresses he had nevertheless invited hoping to save us, and because *I* had suggested it might work . . . .  
  
Perhaps there would still have been a slim chance of escape if Tanglinna had been able to feign sudden passion and excitement – something like "Ah! Let me embrace you my beloved! I have been longing to touch the black silk of your hair for so long!" might have caused Gurshak to remove those cumbersome shackles very quickly – but for understandable reasons, all he managed was to mask his fear and disgust with a thin layer of compliance. He clearly did his best, and admittedly, it was sufficient to convince the goblin – to convince him a bit too much, in fact, for quite suddenly, he took Tanglinna's face in his hands and leaned towards him to kiss his lips . . . .   
A wild combination of emotions and thoughts – guilt, as I had suggested the course of action that had led to *this*, the knowledge that, if I let this happen, Gurshak's belief in Tanglinna's sincerity would probably be destroyed rather violently, pity for Tanglinna, revulsion and fear – made me grab Gurshak's arm as well as I could to drag him away from his victim. "No! You . . .you cannot have him!" I must have sounded like a frightened elfling, and in fact, that was what I felt like – I had never been that helpless and at a loss what to do in a very long time.  
  
Tanglinna looked fairly stunned, whether due to the state of shock the goblin's attempt to kiss him must have put him in or because of the notion that I had probably gotten us into even more serious trouble now, I did not know.  
  
I did not have any time to contemplate the unfortunate archer's possible thoughts, though, for Gurshak released his hold on him – in that, at least, I had succeeded! – and turned to look at me, first with a frown; then, a slow smile, as knowing as unpleasant, spread over his lips. "Are w- we j-jealous?" he asked, almost teasingly. "I - I don't b-blame you. H-he is a -l-lovely p-prize. There is p-plenty f-f-for both, don't y-you agree? B-but you h-have b-been with him for s-s-some time. It is m-m-m-my turn now. L- later you c-can be with him."  
  
For a moment, I was too shocked even to think of an answer.  
  
Gurshak turned away with a leering smile, moving closer to his prey and raising a hand again, as if to draw a reluctant face near to finish what I had interrupted; Tanglinna frantically shook his head, gazing at me for help.  
  
I renewed my hold on Gurshak's arm, attempting to pull him away, *somehow*; it was not an easy thing, as he could more freely, while I was hampered by my fetters. "You will not touch him!" I told him, trying to put some firmness and authority into my voice, ridiculous as I would sound, given my current situation. "Try, and you will have a broken arm! Do you want that?" I briefly glanced at Tanglinna, hoping that the ghost of a smile that I could force onto my face would be encouraging and reassuring; we could not give up now, even though I assumed that our predicament was worse than it had been before and would not become less grim regardless of what we did now.  
  
Gurshak gazed at me, his eyes widening in speculation. "Ah!" he exclaimed, and it seemed to me that he studied me with more interest than before; this was not a good thing, or only good to a very limited degree, as it did at least distract his attention from Tanglinna for the briefest span of time. "S-so you are t-that p-possessive of him? T-t-this will b- be more f-f-fun than I thought! D-do you w-wish to give h-him one last -k- k-kiss before he and I-"  
  
"NO!" Tanglinna interrupted, sounding more than horrified by these outrageous suggestions. "I . . . . He . . . . He . . . ." He seemed unable to form a coherent sentence, and I could understand him only too well. This utterly depraved goblin did not only believe that *we* were lovers – an appalling thought in itself! – but obviously also assumed that he had a silent agreement with Tanglinna to share some very intimate moments with him very soon . . . . This could not be happening! I desperately tried to think of something. . . anything. . . The look of hopelessness on Tanglinna's face, Gurshak's suggestive smile. . . .  
  
It was then that a strange thought occurred to me. It can be wise to let people believe what they wish to believe; perhaps there was a way out of this if we mastered our horror enough to pretend that it was what he thought... Why even rob him of his illusion that we were a loving couple? If this was what he saw us as, he would have to agree that I had certain . . . rights and privileges that he could not simply steal. Perhaps there was a way, after all . . . .  
  
"If . . . . If you want him - earn him!" I said, trying very hard not to look at Tanglinna who had every reason to give me murderous glares now. "We . . . we can fight! I challenge you to a duel! Your friends called you 'Slasher', you must be good with a blade . . . ."  
  
Gurshak suddenly looked rather impressed; apparently, I had not misjudged him when I had assumed that a game of this sort would be to his liking. Any more sensible creature would merely have laughed at a challenge voiced by a ragged and chained prisoner, but this goblin obviously found the thought intriguing.  
  
"A duel? Y -you are challenging m-me to a d-duel?" he asked, laughing, but not sounding derisive, and, briefly gazing at Tanglinna and caressing his face again almost negligently before his hand moved to the hilt of one of the twin scimitars he carried at his waist to stroke the weapon's handle almost tenderly. "I- I am r-r-rather famous for m-my skill with b-b-blades. I-it would b-be a p-pity to h-harm you, but . . . ." His gaze grew speculative, and his eyes travelled from me to Tanglinna and back again. "P-p-perhaps that w-will be e-e-e-exciting f-for you both." Turning to Tanglinna, he enquired: "S-shall we d-d-duel for your a-a-a-a- affections, Daurshul?"  
  
I could have told him that this suggestion would not be received favourably; I obviously knew his beloved better than he did!  
  
Tanglinna managed to look horrified and angry at the same time. "Duel? Duel!" he spluttered, and if looks could kill, I would have been very dead then. "What are you doing!?!?"  
  
It was not a good thing that he expressed his disapproval so very decidedly; for a short time, I really feared that the lack of 'Daurshul's' consent would, perhaps, make Gurshak decide not to fight the duel at all. I grinned at him, feeling that a momentary alliance against my unfortunate 'lover' was in order. "See? He does find that very exciting..."  
  
Tanglinna's eyes widened in amazement. "You will get yourself killed!" he growled. "Where is that going to get us!? You cannot challenge him to a duel!" The valiant archer had obviously chosen to ignore the fact that I had already done so.  
  
"Oh yes, I can." I replied, turning to look at him, and, lowering my voice to a mere whisper, I added: "Do not worry - you know I know how to use a blade!"  
  
I was aware that, to his ears, these words probably sounded hollow, uttered in a vain attempt to reassure him, but not meaning much or anything at all; I was being quite truthful, however.  
  
Tanglinna did not seem to think so; he gave me a glare that could have scared a dragon and snapped: "I have seen how well you use a 'blade'! Not well at all!" As if to underline this very unjust statement, he rattled the chain the lock of which I had tried to pick earlier. "And I am *NOT* excited!"  
  
Fortunately for us, Gurshak did not seem to believe a single word he said; in fact, he looked as if he was anticipating the duel very much . . . .'Slasher' indeed! I wondered how good he was with a blade, good enough for a wealthy merchant, or better . . . . Perhaps he had been a warrior at an earlier point of his life and had reason to believe that he would win this fight, and maybe Tanglinna was right when he implied that I was overestimating my chances . . . . I was quite sure of my skills with a sword, but I was also weary and had spent quite a long time sufficiently immobilized to be not quite certain if my arms would not protest if I forced them into the movements of a swordfight now . . . .  
  
Telling myself not to think of the near future, but only of what had to be done *now*, I gave Gurshak the friendliest smile I could muster and begged: "You must allow me to use *his* sword."  
  
While I hoped that the goblin would suspect some sort of romantic sentimentality behind my request, I had very practical reasons for it. If he was only a merchant orc with a certain interest in sword fighting, he would be used to practicing with scimitars, but had probably seldom fought against someone wielding a straight blade, so using Tanglinna's sword might give me a slight advantage.  
  
With a little grin, I turned to look at Tanglinna and added: "Wouldn't that be just lovely, Mordil?"  
  
I simply had to prove to Gurshak that I had a pet name for Tanglinna as well – and for once, the 'silver-haired lovely' responded marvellously, even though the glare he had given me at first when I had asked for his sword turned into a look of sheer horror now, his eyes widening while his cheeks flushed in a manner that his goblin admirer must have considered as most becoming: "You . . .you . . .you will be sorry for this, Linlote!"  
  
Gurshak seemed to find this exchange most entertaining and amusing; I can only suspect what thoughts were racing in his mind, but he did look . . . excited.  
  
I, for my part, could not have been happier with the way this was taking – Tanglinna had indeed done the right thing! While he had doubtlessly meant it as an insult when he had called me 'Linlote', it had to sound like a nickname in Gurshak's eyes, a further proof that we were very close . . . .Now, that was what he was supposed to think!  
  
Eying Tanglinna levelly, I replied, trying to sound as if I forced myself to be calm in order not to show how much my 'lover's' implied threat had hurt me: "If I have to be sorry, I will be dead anyway . . . . So I suppose I will *not* be sorry." Turning to look at Gurshak again, I enquired: "Do you accept the challenge? Then get me the sword and release me from these chains . . . . We can start now - I am sure we can all hardly wait." With this, I smiled at Tanglinna ever so fondly, deciding that the situation was oddly amusing in spite of the grim outcome all of this could have.  
  
If this was possible, the poor archer looked even more shocked now. "You are going to get yourself killed!" he objected. "Then what am I supposed to do?! You . . .stupid NOLDO!"  
  
The way he almost slipped back into his original way of addressing me, throwing the word 'Noldo' into my face as if it was a crime in itself to be of Noldorin extraction could have caused something close to real hurt, not only feigned one, had Tanglinna's angry words not contained a very understandable worry – what was he to do if I fell indeed? A triumphant, victorious Gurshak was likely to get even bolder in his advances, while Tanglinna would be utterly helpless and exposed, bereft even of the vaguely comforting knowledge that he was not all alone.  
  
And although I did not like to admit it, it was entirely possible that I would not survive the fight.  
  
Gurshak's next words did confirm my suspicion that, if the need arose, he would not hesitate to kill me. "l-l-lovers' quarrel," he murmured. "T-t-that is not good. D-daurshul, you m-must not send him into b-b-b-battle w-with ill f-feelings between y-you."  
  
Amusing as this remark may have been, it told me one thing – for all his assuring me that he would not like to harm me, Gurshak did not really believe that I would return from this 'battle' to be reconciled with Tanglinna. So the duel would only help us at all if Gurshak was defeated – if he killed me, it would be a most useless, unnecessary death . . . . Or perhaps not. Great need spawns strange plans.  
  
I gave Gurshak what could pass for a grateful grin, knowing that it would mask my fear and worry, before I looked at Tanglinna again. "I can tell you what you are supposed to do if I die, Mordil", I said, praying silently that the way I phrased this would make him realize that this was only part of the game we were playing at the surface, but, in fact, hidden advice and a second plan. "If I die, you will do me the favour of braiding my hair in the manner befitting a warrior of Nargothrond - that is all I ask. You will certainly allow him to do me that little favour in case it should be necessary?"  
  
I sincerely hoped that such a touching last wish, combined with a pleading grey eye and an irresistible smile, would be enough to make Gurshak forget that allowing Tanglinna to braid my hair, would mean to accord him greater freedom of movement, to release at least his hands from their heavy shackles . . . . And once he had regained free use of his hands, Tanglinna *would* find a way out of his predicament!  
  
I quickly glanced at him to see if he had realized what I intended, but he merely looked decidedly worried, perhaps not quite certain yet how serious I was, but afraid that I might not be joking.  
  
Gurshak, in turn, did not seem to be overly astonished by my request; he nodded, bowing his head to me. "Of course, he m-may b-braid your h-hair when you are d-d-d-dead", he said. "R- rest assured that h-h-he won't be left . . . ." – here, the most unpleasant leer returned to his face – "c-c-c-comfortless w-when you are g-gone."  
  
"It is of great comfort to know that indeed", I replied with a polite smile, but feeling strangely relieved indeed. Even if I was unlucky, at least one of us would have a fairly good chance to escape – if he realized that this was what I had intended and did not really feel compelled to do exactly what I had told him to do instead of seizing the opportunity to flee! I would not have put it past this foolish archer to choose honouring a fallen ally over saving his own life. Therefore, I glanced at him once more, asking with some emphasis: "You have understood what you are supposed to do, just in case . . . ?"  
  
Fortunately, Tanglinna nodded that he did indeed understand, but at the same time, but he did not appear to be pleased at all. "Don't do this!" he hissed, but to my amazement, he did not sound as angry as before; one could almost have thought that he was worried, and not for himself.  
  
Although I did not reply anything, I was quite glad about his words, and I remembered well enough how he had promised earlier not to let Gurshak and his companions harm me. He was not a bad elf, that Tanglinna Thindalagosion – a bit too stern and respectable for his own good, maybe, and not overly inventive when it came to acting out a comedy for a captor who wished to be fooled, but not truly wicked or bad at heart; he was worth fighting for, and also worthy of the sacrifice into which this whole duel could turn very quickly.  
  
Forcing myself not to think of anything but of our present situation – not of Alagant, not of my father or my friends, not of what awaited me in Mirkwood if I won the fight indeed and freed the archer – I looked at Gurshak again. "Pray fetch the sword now, Master Gurshak - I am eager to begin the fight."  
  
The goblin smiled at me, bowing his head in agreement, but did not leave the cell straightaway; instead, he turned to Tanglinna once more, gently brushing back a few strands of silver hair. "D-do not w-w-worry, Daurshul. I w-w-will do away w- with him q-quickly, and then . . . ."  
  
Well, then, he would be very dead very soon, given that Mordil was quick. Of course, I did not voice that thought – why rob Gurshak of his beautiful dreams? If the suggestive smile with which he finally withdrew was anything to judge by, he doubtlessly had some.   
  
As soon as we were alone, Tanglinna turned his head towards me, his face still most concerned. "What are you doing!?" he whispered.  
  
"Getting us out of this mess . . . or so I hope!" I replied, trying to make my smile as reassuring as possible.  
  
"But . . . but . . . what if he kills you!?" Tanglinna exclaimed. "You can't . . . ." He suddenly interrupted himself, and the worry he had shown until then seemed to give way to anger within an instant. "Are you any good with a sword?" he demanded, sounding as if he did not expect a positive answer. Had he not listened to me at all?  
  
"I know how to use one", I repeated, adding, for honesty's sake: "I will not promise too much, though . . . .I have been tied up for... how many days now? My arms are probably rather too stiff."  
  
Tanglinna obviously could not deny the truth of this assertion; yet, he pursed his lips in annoyance as if it had been my personal fault that he had thought it wiser not to loose my hands at any time between our setting of from Erebor and our involuntary arrival here. "I hope you are better with a sword than you are with a needle!" he replied. "This had better work!"  
  
Perhaps, I should not have been offended. I had indeed miserably failed to pick the lock with my needle, and I what I had done with said needle later had only been pathetic and ridiculous, so Tanglinna had every right to be somewhat doubtful – but at that moment, these reasonable and moderate thoughts would not come to my mind.  
  
Instead, I only felt hot anger at this ignorant woodland archer – oh yes, that he was, even if he was not a bad elf on the whole! – who dared question both my word and my swordsmanship even though I was ready to fight for him and his freedom to whatever end. Who did he believe he was talking to? Oh, he had generously told me that it did not matter what he thought, but it certainly mattered . . . . He probably still saw me as nothing but a miserable thief, lowlife scum, perhaps able to use a sword to hack at an attacker in improvised self-defence, but not skilled enough to survive a real duel...  
  
Had he not understood at all that, for all the strange turns my life had taken, I was a warrior no less than he was? I was dangerous enough with my chosen weapon! Not without a hint of bitterness, I briefly wondered if he would have had more faith in my skills had I not stood before him in threadbare clothing, a branded thief, and quite obviously not even an overly successful one, hardly more than a beggar... People judge by appearances, elves, who stubbornly cling to the belief that only a beautiful form can contain a beautiful spirit, even more so than others, so it was small wonder that I was treated as if all knowledge, refinement, integrity and honour had vanished with the fancy clothing and the good reputation . . . . Admittedly, Tanglinna could not know that I had ever known much better times – but he would be very sorry that he had mistaken something that came close to an understatement for overconfident boasting!  
  
At least, I wanted him to be a little impressed, so, while Tanglinna started slightly as Gurshak returned with the sword, I straightened, ready to go into this fight like a true warrior of Nargothrond, someone even my rather unimpressable father – had I not vowed not to think of him just now? – would have been proud of, as proud as he had been on that day long past when I had somehow managed to defeat Lord Gwindor in the fencing contest held at the great autumn feast in front of all the court of Nargothrond, only a couple of years before all this splendour and glory had fallen to shambles for each of us, though for different reasons, actually not even very long before Nargothrond itself had fallen . . . .  
  
I could have changed back into the warrior I had been back then, or a Vala in person could have appeared to rescue us, and Tanglinna would not have noticed. His eyes were upon the sword that Gurshak leaned against the wall invitingly close to him, yet beyond the reach of his shackled hands . . . . I could not quite help suspecting that he would have preferred to do the fighting on his own, but I was glad that he had not tried to challenge the goblin himself; not even taking into account that it was highly unlikely that Gurshak would have agreed to cross blades with his 'silver-haired lovely', the prospect of someone who mainly fought as an archer engaging in a swordfight in which more than life or death at stake would have been rather terrifying.  
  
Then, there was no time to dwell on such thoughts any more, for Gurshak proceeded to free me from my chains, eying me with quite a strange expression. "W-would y-you prefer a s-s-scimitar?" he asked with a grin when he removed the last shackle. "I-I want it to be a f-fair f-fight." The chuckle that followed told me enough; he did not believe that an elf would ever be able to best him with an orcish weapon. Who was I to gainsay him?  
  
"A . . . scimitar? A thing like . . . that?" I asked most innocently, pointing to one of the weapons on Gurshak's belt. "I have never used one . . . ." This was a blatant lie, but a glance at Tanglinna, who looked horrified yet again, told me that it sounded convincing enough. "But if you think I should try . . . ."  
  
Tanglinna was glowering at me now; he probably thought that I was rather too foolhardy, or perhaps so desperate that I wished to die quickly.  
  
As for Gurshak, he probably only assumed that I was adventurous enough to consider the duel as a daring game – or simply very stupid. "D-d- do you w-w-wish to use this?" he enquired, gesturing to the elegant curved blades at his waist, and, without waiting for an answer, he drew one forth with a flourish. I was surrounded by peacocks indeed! But at least, the goblin peacock now handed me a scimitar, hilt first, and asked: "D-d-do you wish to t-try it f-first?"  
  
I took the weapon, taking great care to seem hesitant, almost at a loss how to hold it. A true hero, like all those great warriors of the old songs and tales, would have raised the blade in a heartbeat now to cut Gurshak's throat and rescue the remaining prisoner; being the honourable fool that I can be at times, I refrained from doing so.  
  
Instead, I did as my opponent had suggested, and tried to develop a feeling for the scimitar – a good weapon indeed, good enough to make me wonder if I would be able to keep it for Seven! – its weight and movements, silently cursing my raw wrists and my weariness and, at the same time, doing my best to look as harmless and clumsy as possible with it. Someone who knew me well – or who was very observant – could have told that I was merely playing a bit now, but Gurshak's barely hidden amusement told me that he only saw the shell of what I was doing, not what lay hidden in it.  
  
"Oh, well . . . . It might work, as far as I can tell . . . ." I remarked in the end; I could tell very well that I would be able to turn the tentative moves I had made until now into deadly sweeps and strokes, but the goblin would realize that soon enough without my telling him in advance. Turning to Tanglinna with a trusting smile, I asked: "What do you think - should I use this?"  
  
Tanglinna looked as if he could not believe his ears; perhaps, he had thought or at least hoped that I would decide that a scimitar was not the right weapon for me. Then, his anger seemed to get the best of him once again. "Why not?" he countered, his eyes glittering darkly. "I am sure you are just as skilled with that as you are with other objects of sharp metal." And with a disgusted snort, he slumped back against the wall, doubtlessly convinced that someone as foolish as I did not deserve any better than to learn about his imperfections the hard way.  
  
Gurshak had watched our little exchange with interest. "D- don't fret, Daurshul. It w-w-will be over q-quickly, and t-t-then...." Again, he did not finish the sentence, but smiled, moving the sword away from Tanglinna, into a corner of the room where it would not be in the way during our fight. Then, he took the time for a proper parting from his adored one and gently brushed a few stray strands of hair from Tanglinna's face, his hand lingering long enough on his cheek to allow a few further caresses of even more intimate nature before he turned to face me.  
  
Tanglinna grimaced. "If you lose I will . . . .I will kill you myself!" he spat.  
  
I gave him a wry grin. "Yes, Mordil, do so if you still have the chance." That was the right sort of farewell.  
  
Saluting Gurshak with the scimitar, I added: "I fear I am hardly a worthy foe for you, Master Gurshak - but let us begin."  
  
A smile of great anticipation graced Gurshak's features; he then saluted me in turn and gracefully stepped into a fighting stance, apparently already sure or his victory.  
  
Then, the blades moved together; it had begun.  
  
Gurshak calmly let me attack at first, only defending himself, doubtlessly wanting to see how and how fell I fought and, perhaps, hoping that I would exhaust myself before he pressed his own attack – in brief, he used the tactics Half-Dead would apply in single combat, until his opponent had wearied himself enough against the annoyingly unbreakable defence and had been deceived long enough by my friend's crooked and crippled appearance to be half a moment too slow when Half-Dead's sword suddenly dashed forward. . . .  
  
Knowing this, I was at least prepared enough to block the blow when Gurshak finally attacked himself, but defending, slowly moving towards the door – a move that Gurshak permitted with a chuckle, probably aware himself that the cell was rather too narrow for a scimitar fight – I became more and more aware that I had been very sure of myself indeed when I had assumed that I would be able to defeat this goblin – too sure, perhaps.   
  
~*~*~*~*  
  
What was he doing?! This was not part of the plan!  
  
Admittedly, the plan had not worked quite the way it was intended to, but not once had he mentioned a duel! A duel with orc scimitars at that! What was he thinking?!!?  
  
They had moved from the cell, no doubt finding it too confining to truly be able to battle with weapons, so I was left alone in the cell like some damsel in distress awaiting the outcome of the valiant hero's fight with the dread villain! It was not a role to my liking! Not at all!  
  
I watched the elongated shadows they threw on the wall as they danced their deadly duet, scimitars ringing with their own sharp music when they met.  
  
"No . . . ," I murmured, shaking my head to free it from dark thoughts.  
  
And yet . . . could Alagaith truly defeat Gurshak? That would solve our problem more neatly than what I had tried to do. He had said that he knew how to use a sword, and from what I had seen before they had vanished from my sight, he knew how to use a scimitar for all he had feigned ignorance of it with Gurshak. But how well did he know how to use it? It seemed to me that Gurshak was an expert. The blades appeared, even to my unknowledgeable eyes, to be very fine indeed and the little flourish with which he handed Alagaith the scimitar showed that Gurshak knew how to handle them. What chance did Alagaith truly have? Surely, he must be more skilled with straight blades! Mine was a straight blade, a good sword! Why hadn't he chosen to use that?!  
  
I growled to myself, yanking on my wrist chains in frustration. To my utter amazement, the lock Alagaith had been trying to pick with his needle sprang open and my right wrist fell free.  
  
I slowly raised my newly loosed hand. He *had* managed to pick the lock with the needle! I sighed then, feeling very badly that I had thrown his inability to pick this lock in his face just before the duel. I glanced once more at the shadows in the hall, hearing the harsh clashing of the blades.  
  
My shoulders slumped dispiritedly, my hand dropping to my side.  
  
"Please do not get killed, Alagaith," I murmured, feeling very guilty and not liking that he might go to his death with my last words to him being harsh and unfair. "I will apologize to you on my knees . . . just do not get killed."  
  
Linlote. . . that was what I had called him. . . a skulking cutpurse. . . .  
  
I wished there was something I could do . . . anything I could do to show that I had misjudged him so horribly.  
  
I had not give this Noldo much thought – outside of finding him highly annoying and an aggravation - when I had first encountered him. My annoyance with him had grown over time while we journeyed from Erebor toward Gladaran Thamas, but it was tempered with curiosity. A curiosity that had lead to my digging through his personal things in a way, that if reversed, I would have found highly displeasing.  
  
Our time of confinement here in Gurshak's lair had showed me another side to this skulking cutpurse . . . Linlote indeed! I felt I knew him better than I had, and though our relationship had tottered between friendly acceptance and outright animosity, I did not want to see him die while defending me . . . I could not have lived with that guilt!  
  
It was selflessly brave of him to risk himself in this way, to offer me another chance at escape if he were to fall. He was truly noble and good hearted . . . even if he was a Noldo thief.  
  
"Let him be as good as he thinks he is!" I implored the Valar in a whisper.  
  
As if in answer to my plea, I heard the clatter of metal on stone . . . someone had dropped their weapon. There was a muffled thud then . . . and the fight was over . . . . Someone had fallen.  
  
I stood, body tensed, eyes wide and fixed on the doorway.  
  
What had happened? Who had won?  
  
"Alagaith?" I breathed, my voice barely audible even to my ears.  
  
He could not be dead! The Valar were not that cruel. Yet I could not shake the image of Gurshak standing over Alagaith's still form.  
  
"No," I hissed, whether to negate my own fear or another plea to the Valar, I do not know.  
  
If it were a prayer, it went unheard, or perhaps I should say it was not answered as I would have it be. A voice was heard in the hallway, a voice speaking to me . . . .Gurshak's voice . . . .  
  
"D-do not w-worry – all is w-well now!"  
  
TBC 


	8. Chapater 7 Anxious Moments

Tanglinna hands a neat stack of reviews – with not a wrinkle or tear on any of the papers to Alagaith and grins.  
  
"Your reviews, my lord," he said, bowing with a flourish.  
  
Alagaith, who looks every inch a Noldorin lord in very nice, soft, embroidered clothing, grinned as well, spoiling the aloof image somewhat, and takes the papers with a gracious nod.  
  
"Thank you, Mordil....How did you convince the printer to work for you?" His grin widens at this as the unflappable Silvan's eyes narrow slightly. "But let us see," the Noldo continues hastily before there was another bout of biting comments. "Dear kingmaker seems to have gotten quite Brethilitic himself here! Just look at this review!"  
  
The silver-haired archer's brows raise in appreciation.  
  
"Yes, he certainly did. He must have caught it from the elf who enjoys hearing himself talk too much in that last chapter," he commented, hazarding a glance at Alagaith, but then he frowns. "He *would* have to mention hair, wouldn't he...." He sighs in a long-suffering manner and shakes his head, resisting the urge to touch his hair.  
  
Alagaith grins once more.  
  
"Well, you have gotten rid of it since, and you got rid of Gurshak, that much is true.... Although, the two events were not really related."  
  
"Yes, not related at all...orc or goblins...what is the difference...." Tanglinna smiles a bit, looking apologetic at this rather unjust statement, reading the reviews over Alagaith's shoulder. "I am sure you will be quite a competent suitor when the time is right, young kingmaker. You must remember that I was quite a bit older than you are now...or will ever be since you are a poor mortal...when I found Celair. Your lady-love is out there. Never fear." He smiles encouragingly at 'young kingmaker'.  
  
Alagaith does as well, and then continues to read the review, his eye rapidly scanning the papers in his hands.  
  
"Oh!" he exclaims suddenly. "It seems he did not like the chapter ending....Very strange! But that seems to be a common opinion....daw the minstrel did not like it either, as it seems...." He shakes his head, wondering why people seemed a bit distressed over that last cliffhanger.  
  
"My dearest Linlote!" Tanglinna said with mock surprise. "They fear that you are dead, or those who remembered the prologue and know you are not deceased, like Venyatuima and Karianua, probably think you are dreadfully wounded. Even though you are a nuisance and irritating at times, they do like you and do not want to see you get hurt." Grinning, he leans forward to whisper into Alagaith's ear, "You have fangurls, mellon- nin. And a fanboy in kingmaker's case." He chuckles and straightens.  
  
Alagaith twists slightly in his chair to look suspiciously up at the Silvan archer, as if not believing what he has said.  
  
"You don't mean that!" he muttered, turning back to the reviews. "Anyway....There are other theories out there. Ptath's is rather interesting, I think – but I like Lutris' idea....But Dis Thrainsdotter seems to believe that you alone will have to do all the rescuing!" He turned back to Tanglinna, chuckling with merriment this time. "Our readers are not of one mind....We have confused them!"  
  
One silvery brow flies aloft.  
  
"I wonder why.... It is the length of that last chapter, and the fact that so many things could have happened," he reasons. "And yes, dear Linlote, you do have fans. Though, hm, the evil witch queen thinks *I* should rescue *you* too!" He grins at the evil witch queen. "So tell me, Linlote, why...well, they will have to read to see who rescues whom. Or if we both perished and are talking to them from the Halls of Mandos just now." Grins slightly at this, still reading and then a frown appeared on his face. "I played my parts in this too well, it would seem. Hel is right though. Gurshak should have known that I was not telling him he truth about my feelings for him." He puffs up slightly, looking rather pleased with himself. "Maybe I *am* a better actor than I thought." He grins at Alagaith, who merely looks amused by the Peacock, and slowly a scowl replaces Tanglinna's pleased grin. "*Some* of us are TOO good at acting...." He glares at the Noldo, but says nothing more.  
  
Now it is Alagaith's turn to grin in a rather self-satisfied manner.  
  
"Yes," he agreed amiably. "mekareQ has recognized that as well – she thinks I fooled Gurshak quite nicely...." He turns to gaze up at 'Mordil', his features a portrait of innocence, which immediately puts Tanglinna on the defensive, but before he can form a protest, Alagaith continues in excited tones. "Oh, but look! WeasleyTwinsLover1112 wants to see you apologizing to me on your knees....Now that would be a nice thing to happen for this chapter, or the next one...." Alagaith notes the look on the archer's face and wisely decides not to purse this topic. "amlugwen is very right – it is not easy to decide who of us deserves more pity. Perhaps this next chapter will help her to make up her mind."  
  
If Alagaith had glanced back at Tanglinna at that moment, he would have noticed that the Inscrutable Silvan mask was back in place, except for the wicked gleam in his eyes. Slowly, he moves to stand before the Noldo.  
  
"My dearest Alagaith," he begins in earnest tones, his eyes filling with gratitude and such guilt at not having done this before as he falls to his knees, bending over Alagaith's feet. "Please forgive me for ever doubting that you were such an excellent lock-picker and so good with a scimitar! And you have such lovely hands! And your hair is so soft and beautiful and your one eye is like a storm-tossed sea in summer! Oh! I am not worthy of your attentions in any regard! Can you ever forgive me?" He keeps his face down, hoping that his laughter will pass for sobs. Who says he cannot act??  
  
Alagaith stares down at him in silent shock, blinking and frowning. Suddenly he begins to cough in a most peculiar manner, covering his mouth as he does so. Then he bends, ever so gracefully and with his oh-so-lovely- hands, his beautiful, soft hair falling over his shoulders, he urges Tanglinna to his feet.  
  
Please do not do this ever again....I cannot bear to see you humiliating yourself to such an extent....That is not the Silver Peacock I know and love!"  
  
Skillfully, he evaded eye contact, knowing that he will not be able to contain his laughter if they look at one another.  
  
Tanglinna smirks slightly, turning to the computer screen, gazing directly at UbiquitousPitt.  
  
"Was that 'rad' enough for you, meleth?" He cocks one eyebrow. "Or do I still need lessons at "Mrs. Pitt's School of Seduction"? I am willing to learn, so beware!" He grins at her, but then turns to the orc that lives with amlugwen. "Just what are you implying, my dear sir?" he growls, his face reverting to the fierce, feral elf warrior.  
  
"Now, do not scare that poor orcling, Mordil!" Alagaith interrupts with another grin. "Perhaps you should have one of Miss Aranel's most excellent cupcakes first – that will calm you a bit before you start hunting random orcs.... Thank you, Aranel!" He gives her a wide smile of appreciation. "Oh, and greetings to Little One from Alagant!"  
  
"I suppose a cupcake first would be good, and some of Karianua's cake...which icing do you want, Linlote? Chocolate or vanilla? I prefer chocolate myself, but I will be generous and let you chose." He grins again and moves to stand behind Alagaith's chair, reading, once more, over his shoulder. "Dis Thrainsdotter, is it really that hard to woo an elf? Perhaps you would care to join UbiquitousPitt and myself at the Seduction Lessons." He winks at her as Alagaith looks back at him, shaking his head.  
  
"Chocolate is fine with me, Mordil.... Enjoy your 'seduction lessons' with all those lovely ladies....Perhaps Salsify would care to join you too? IF she is not 'normally an elf fan', but finds us so exceptional, she would certainly be thrilled by the thought...." He pauses and winks. "Or she can join me eating the rest of the cake and the cupcakes...."  
  
Tanglinna grins, then tilts his head slightly.  
  
"Why not combine all the sweets with the lessons? I believe food can be seductive in its way...." He grins again. "WeasleyTwinsLover1112 seems to be a master of seducing orcs...or thinks *I* would be if I batted my eyelashes at Gurshak. I fear I am not that good an actor. But perhaps you are, Linlote. Hel says maybe you should have proclaimed your "love at first sight" to Gurshak and saved me from my non-award winning performance. So why did you not do that, Linlote? Hm?"  
  
Alagaith smiles ever so sweetly, batting his eyelashes slightly.  
  
"I did not want to break your poor heart, Mordil." He chuckles then. "And as Aranel says that I am 'pretty ingenious', you can be sure that I did the right thing." His grin turns into one of those infuriating Noldor smiles, that do, on occasion, upset certain Silvans. "Trust me!"  
  
"Hmph!" the certain Silvan answers. "Trust you! That is the entire problem, is it not? But...." The scowl fades and becomes a grin. "Lutris hopes you have come up with another of your 'wacky ideas'. The wacky Noldorin genius...yes, that is definitely you!"  
  
Alagaith laughs at this, straightening the papers neatly.  
  
"If you say so, O Tanglinna the Wise. Well....Have we answered everything?" He gazes at the reviews once more to make certain that no one is forgotten.  
  
Tanglinna does the same.  
  
"Yes, I believe that is all of them. On to the chapter then! Someone needs rescuing." He grins a final time.  
  
"The charming damsel in distress, yes...." A chuckle follows this and then he flourishes the papers. "On with the chapter now!"  
  
~*~*~*~*~*  
  
Chapter 7 – Anxious Moments  
  
"D-do not w-worry – all is w-well now.!"  
  
I stared at the door with horror-widened eyes, hardly believing what I heard. Gurshak had won! He had defeated Alagaith and he . . . had . . . won! A wave of cold disbelief swept through me – and sorrow.  
  
Alagaith was dead . . . . Alagaith was dead . . . . He had died trying to save us - to save me . . . . A thought that had haunted me off and on through out my life surfaced – ~I am cursed . . . .~ But I did not dwell on it; this was no time for such rumination. Perhaps . . . just perhaps he wasn't dead, only injured. Surely Gurshak would allow someone to treat him! He could not be that heartless and cruel, could he? A dread thought assaulted me. What might Gurshak expect of me if I were to ask for this?  
  
I closed my eyes briefly, knowing the answer to this. It went against everything that I believed – surrendering my body to someone I did not love – yet if it would help Alagaith, then it was the least I could do. . . . that foolish Noldo! But if I could kill Gurshak first . . . that was a much more comforting thought.  
  
But then the next words made me realize that particular sacrifice on my part would not be necessary.  
  
"H-he w-will not b-bother us any m-more, n-never again . . . .And I s- shall c-claim my p-prize now. . . ."  
  
Alagaith *was* dead. . . . I drew a deep breath then murmured a quick prayer to the Valar to be merciful to that most unfortunate Noldo thief. I wondered what his time in the Halls of Mandos would be and I hoped that the Valar were as compassionate as I believed they had to be. Alagaith had proved himself to be noble, brave, compassionate, and giving. Surely, that had to count for something!  
  
His shadow loomed in the hall then, huge and fire-tossed, bringing me back to the situation at hand. Claim his prize . . . . I thought not! If he thought I would stand by helplessly now, he was greatly mistaken! I gazed at the chain still binding my other wrist. There was nothing I could do for Alagaith, yet he had given me a chance with his last words – a chance when I was freed to braid his hair. I felt a pang at this, for though he had not meant for me to literally do this, I would. But what did I know of Noldorin braids? I would do my best, hoping that it would be fitting . . . then I would kill Gurshak!  
  
"W-won't you congratulate m-me?"  
  
Congratulate him! Congratulate him for killing my companion so quickly and easily? Congratulate him because he thought I *wanted* him to win? Who knew what twisted thoughts he held about my feelings in this matter?  
  
I growled in anger and frustration, fingers pulling at the chains and cold metal band that held me to the wall. I knew what sort of congratulations he would want! He would not get it! Not from me!  
  
"Are y-you not p-pleased? Y-you should be!"  
  
I was not pleased, not pleased at all, and yet I would have to 'appear' pleased . . . at least until he freed me. . . at least until I had braided Alagaith's hair, asking the Valar to watch over him . . . an d his orphaned son. . . . Then Gurshak would see my pleasure!  
  
"N-now, w-wont' you t-talk to me?"  
  
His voice sounded rather offended that I had not answered him - and a bit whiny like a child denied a plaything. I would not speak to him, knowing that the anger in my voice would give me away. I would not loose this last chance at freedom to my emotions, and yet my fingers clawed at the chain, even as I watched the doorway. If both my hands were free . . . !  
  
"You s-should b-be more g-grateful!" he continued, his shadow growing larger as he approached.  
  
He was certainly taking his time about this! Maybe he was injured as well. That would be wonderful! If perhaps he would not free me to braid Alagaith's hair, then he would free me if I agreed to tend to his wounds! Or else he was merely toying with me, dragging out the moment so as to get the most possible pleasure from the anticipation of what he thought was coming.  
  
"Grateful," I muttered gleefully, too many possible scenarios playing in my head, all of them ending with Gurshak's death. "Grateful! I will show you grateful!"  
  
That ridiculous goblin would be in for quite a surprise from his 'grateful' Daurshul. I drew a deep breath, hoping I could fool him into believing my compliance until I was completely freed, and had done my duty by Alagaith. I wondered if it would be harder this time to fool Gurshak – the rules of the game had been altered by Alagaith's death . . . .  
  
I felt another bite of sorrow as I thought briefly about my rather short acquaintance with that most annoying yet somehow endearing Noldorin thief. I felt some measure of regret that I had not truly gotten to know who he was. A person is not merely what one perceives on the first meeting or even in many meetings; people are the sum of their lives, their experiences, and I admit that I knew next to nothing about him. . . now I never would. What little I did know of him was somewhat at odds. He had shown bravery in challenging Gurshak to this ill-fated duel, yet he had been a cowardly thief when I first saw him, skulking among the fallen on the battlefield at the feet of Erebor. He had wit and a sense of humor, granted that it was one I did not often share in, but I suspect under different circumstances I think I would have learned to appreciate it. He had been generous to sacrifice himself and yet . . . and yet if he had but used *my* blade he might have had a greater chance of actually winning! Stubborn, foolish Noldo! He said he knew how to use a good straight elvish blade and yet he had decided that orcish scimitars ". . . might work, as far as I can tell . . . ." Why would he decide to use a weapon he was not familiar with? He knew what was at stake! And yet, with such a nonchalant, Gorthaur-may-care attitude, he had taken to hand an unfamiliar weapon, making tentative swipes with it that even I, with my most limited experience with blades, could tell would never suffice in an all out fight with someone that of Gurshak's skill. Then he had smiled at me asking what I thought, should he use it? Should he use it?! Of all the idiot assumptions! Let him use it I had, and look where it had gotten us! Him dead on the floor, me awaiting another chance at escape, and considering how things had gone so far, this would probably not go as it should either. . . .  
  
I scowled fiercely, fingers once more futilely combating with the iron binding my left wrist.  
  
"I cannot believe you did this to me, Alagaith Alagaerion!" I growled fiercely, my face contorted into a mask of sheer fury. So much for looking 'grateful' and 'pleased'.  
  
There was an amused chuckle, and a face peered around the corner of the doorway, a rather pleased, arrogant face, one dark brow held aloft, dark hair tumbling over his shoulders.  
  
"So," he drawled, eyeing me with a mixture of bemusement and appraisal, "you would really have preferred Gurshak to win, wouldn't you, Mordil?"  
  
I stared at him, my mouth agape like a beached fish. I could not believe that I was seeing him . . . not Gurshak but Alagaith! His grin widened as though he were enjoying my shock, and I don't know if I was more relieved to see him or angry at him for having made me play the fool with his little . . . joke. I shut my mouth with a snap and glared at him – anger seemed to have won.  
  
"You . . . YOU . . .YOU . . . !"  
  
An odd sound escaped my throat then, a curse perhaps, and I glared at him in a manner that would have cowed anyone else, but he -that NOLDO! – merely looked entirely unimpressed and, yes, entertained . . . .  
  
And then, he dragged Gurshak's limp body into the cell . . . .  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
If this were one of the old, heroic tales, I would have taken a mighty sword bearing an impressive name and would have swept Gurshak's head off, or I would at least have died bravely, defending my unfortunate companion – but as my right of being numbered among the noble warriors about whose deeds glorious songs were made had been forfeit ever since the First Age, I saw no point in getting myself killed, or in killing Gurshak once I had managed to disarm him.  
  
Admittedly, this was only part of the reason why I did not bury my scimitar in the goblin's flesh, but only kept the blade pressed against his throat while I reached for a nice, heavy bronze candlestick placed in one of the corridor's wall niches and knocked him unconscious with it.  
  
To name my least noble reason first – I did not want any bloodstains on his gorgeous clothes, or rather, on the clothes that he was wearing and that would be mine very soon, for they looked as if they might fit. . . more or less, at least, but they were certainly better than anything I had worn in a very long time.  
  
But even if it had not been for his apparel, I would have hesitated to kill this most unpleasant goblin. True enough, I had killed orcs in battle long ago, and that, I could have done again had it been necessary, albeit with little joy; but ending a life, even such an obviously depraved one, as long as I had a choice did not seem right at all. Perhaps I could have told myself that Gurshak was merely a goblin, and a very wicked one, at that, but the time in which dealing death to an orc might have seemed easier to me than killing an elf were long past. . . Suffice to say that I was most grateful for that candlestick, and having placed it neatly back in its niche, I flashed a smile in the general direction of the merciful Valar – up and west, or at least, where I suspected that west was – before I slumped back against the wall, contemplating the important question how the most joyous feeling of triumph and suddenly very weak knees could go together.  
  
If nothing had happened then, I might only have stood there for some moments, regaining my breath and some semblance of calm, deciding that this would make a story Alagant would love, observing that my arms were aching even more than they had before, and thinking the sort of utterly random thoughts that come with emerging from great danger, that it was over now, that the clasp on Gurshak's cloak was certainly worth a lot, that having a nice, green apple to eat would have been a good thing now . . . .  
  
But of course, something did happen, that is, I heard a strange sound, half moan, half whisper, coming from the cell, and after I had pondered what I had heard for a moment, I realized that it had been an intelligible word: "No!" 'No'? No. Yes, 'no!' indeed! This could only mean one thing – and how very flattering that Tanglinna apparently assumed even now that I had not won the fight! Did this charming archer ever listen? I had told him, several times, if I remembered correctly, that I knew how to use a blade. . . .  
  
Being in the exhausted, giddy state that inevitably follows such a duel, the thought that it was not very polite of him to have so little confidence in the elf who had just saved him seemed very logical and natural, and it brought a somewhat wicked grin to my face. It seemed I had to reassure my poor companion a little! So, being the honest elf that I can be, I told him the truth: "D-do not w-worry – all is w-well now!" Perhaps it was not entirely by chance that I sounded the slightest bit like Gurshak.  
  
I continued to talk to him while I tried to drag Gurshak towards the cell, preferably without soiling that lovely cloak, and there was hardly a reason at all for Tanglinna to look as upset as he did when I finally decided to end this most entertaining game and peer around the corner – I had not told him lies, after all!  
  
Had Tanglinna's glare turned into relieved laughter after a moment or two, I would probably have laughed as well and would have freed him immediately – I might even have apologized for my somewhat tasteless joke. But the Mirkwood archer's glare was so fierce and lasting that it simply invited further teasing; making him squirm and glower a little before we left would not be the worst sort of revenge for what he had said earlier.  
  
Strange as it may sound, we were not exactly in a hurry. Tanglinna could not know this – his knowledge of Eastern Orcish was clearly limited to curses that he could not even pronounce properly! – but if I had understood the exchange between Thrakush and Uglash correctly when they had left our cell, they had been planning not to disturb Gurshak while he was enjoying the pleasures of Daurshul's company down here; and Gurshak would not leave this room for quite some time, of that I was certain.   
"His scimitars are very good..." I merrily remarked, thinking that Seven would be very glad to receive such a sword in exchange for the rather mediocre one he had lost. "I wonder where he got them!"  
  
When I placed the scimitars next to Tanglinna's sword, close enough to me to reach them in a heartbeat if it should become necessary, I noticed something quite interesting; Tanglinna's right hand was free – the shackle had fallen open. So much for my inability to pick a lock properly! I raised a brow.  
  
This only earned me a growl from Tanglinna. "I hope you have had your fun, Linlote," he spat, and what had come close to a nickname earlier was used like a taunt now, acerbic and meant to hurt. "Now get me out of this!" A brief gesture indicated the remaining chains binding him.  
  
Until then, Tanglinna's anger had been fairly amusing – but this rudeness, intended to be seriously insulting, not only employed in jest, took me aback, even if my joke had maybe gone a bit too far. So this was all that he would call me – I had desperately made plans to enable us or at least *him* to escape, I had fought the goblin, I had opened one of the locks on his shackles, and – this was what he called me? A skulking cutpurse! Very well. . . If he wanted a wicked criminal to deal with him, he could get just that!  
  
Very calmly, I took the keys Gurshak was still carrying on his person from the goblin's pocket, and equally calmly, I went over to Tanglinna, keys in hand. For some odd reason, he had obviously been convinced that I would rid him of the chains at once – strange that he was so ready to trust a 'skulking cutpurse'! I was sure that he would not make that mistake again – I taught him not to, for I swiftly put back his right hand where it belonged, locking the shackle again, telling him with a pleased smile: "Ah, look - it seems I have not even damaged the lock..." With this, I walked away again and started to undress my felled opponent; even if we did not have to make haste, I had wasted enough time with pleasantries now.  
  
I had taken poor Tanglinna by surprise. For a moment, he was very silent, gaping at what I had done to him; but then, all Udun was unleashed at me. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING!!!!!????????!!!!!! Get me out of here! Are you insane!? Free me!!! NOW!!!!!!!"  
  
When this very gentle request was not met with immediate obedience – in fact, I had just removed Gurshak's cloak and was searching his pockets now, quietly humming a merry old Orcish tune Seven had taught me to myself – he even tried to lunge forward, but with no success.  
  
I pretended not to be aware of his plight at all. "Now, this is a cloak of very good wool..." I finally said in a conversational tone, not even bothering to look at him. "Even better than that other one I came across a few days ago when you had to interrupt me - and red!" This observation brought a genuine nostalgic smile to my face for the briefest span of time. "I am sure it will suit me well..."  
  
Tanglinna stared at me in sheer disbelief. "What are you doing!?!? Who cares about his clothing! Release me, Alagaith, or else!"  
  
For a moment, I felt tempted to ask what this ominous 'or else' was supposed to consist in, given that he was still securely chained to the wall, but this would have meant to abandon the strategy I had followed until then. So I merely continued: "And this tunic - just lovely!" Have you seen the embroidery, Mordil? I have never seen a better tunic ever since I tried to steal one from a dead captain of Lindon... Only that he was not dead, but quite alive, only stunned..." With a sigh, I added: "So I did not get it then - but this will do marvellously!"  
  
I could have told Tanglinna the very hilarious story of that captain then if he had only asked, but for understandable reasons, he refrained from doing so. He was still staring at me open-mouthed; after some time, when I had already removed Gurshak's lovely silken shirt, he repeated in a much quieter tone: "What are you doing? You . . .you. . . " He seemed to shy away from saying whatever was on his mind, and his eyes, never leaving me, suddenly looked rather worried, almost horrified; then, he finally blurted out: "You are going to leave me here aren't you?! You can't do that! YOU CAN'T!"  
  
He was quite right in one respect – even if he had been much worse an elf than he actually was, I would not have had the heart to leave him to the mercy of our captors. Admittedly, it would have been the logical thing to do if I had only thought of me. The moment I freed Tanglinna, I would be a prisoner again myself, and one who could not hope to be rescued or kindly released.  
  
I briefly wondered how the fact that I had tried to make a plan for his escape that could even work if I died fitted into the picture that Tanglinna seemed to have of the situation, or what made him think that I would be ready to buy my freedom with so dishonourable an act at all. It could have told him something about me that I had not simply killed Gurshak when he had handed me the scimitar in the first place, but why should he have realized that there was a line that I would not cross as long as I was not forced by much direr a prospect than the loss of a hand? He knew I was a 'skulking cutpurse', and nothing but that; one should never underestimate the power of first impressions.  
  
I had managed to undress Gurshak almost completely by then, placing his clothes in a neat pile. It proved quite useful then that I had been forced to move heavy dead bodies often enough; without that knowledge, it would have been very difficult to chain the still unconscious goblin to the wall with the irons that had held me only a short time before.  
  
Tanglinna watched me incredulously as I picked up the clothes and the scimitars and left the cell. If he had been a good observer, he could have relaxed a bit then. He should have noticed that I had left his sword behind, and even a simpleton could have known that it was too lovely a prize to be left behind, so chances that I would have return to the room even if I did not to free him were great enough to make it quite unnecessary to yell after me as loudly as he did. I did not answer him.  
  
Of course, I could just as well have changed into the goblin's clothing in Tanglinna's presence, but I had not left merely in order to spite him or for reasons of decorum; elves heal fairly quickly, but neither the scar of last winter's wound nor some marks speaking of more recent trouble I had gotten into had faded yet, and I could do without more contemptuous curiosity.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*  
  
He . . .he was leaving! Leaving me here, chained to the wall next to Gurshak, whose clothing he had just appropriated, leaving the goblin in nothing more than his smallclothes.  
  
I turned to stare incredulously from the door to gaze at the unconscious goblin. What would he make of this when he woke up? I fear that I could maybe guess what he would think – some sort of odd game I wanted to play with him! And Alagaith was leaving me here! This could not be happening! My head swung to the door once more.  
  
"Alagaith?"  
  
No answer.  
  
"Alagaith! Please."  
  
There is no more oppressive and soul-crushing sound than silence when one desperately wishes to hear something . . . anything. . . .  
  
"Do not leave me here! Not like this!" I called out, thinking that he could not be that heartless . . . could he? "At least . . .throw me the keys! Please! Give me some chance to escape on my own!"  
  
This last statement was actually ridiculous. Even if he had nicely placed the keys in my hand, I would not be able to reach my other wrist to free it. If Gurshak awoke, would he call for the others or would he . . . . I drew a deep breath, feeling my anger surfacing once more. I knew that when Gurshak tired of me, he would probably hand me off to his friends and then . . . . A snarl contorted my face, hot anger burning through me. "I *KNEW* I had no reason to trust a Noldo!" I barked, loudly enough that I hoped he would hear me. "You are only proving me right by treating me this way!" This is a taunt that will, on occasion, work, but I doubted it would this time. I yanked on the chains, almost hoping that the one he had unlocked earlier would spring open of its own volition, but no such luck.  
  
But then he was back . . . dressed in Gurshak's dark clothing, his hair braided neatly. ~Noldorin braids,~ I thought. He looked every inch a Noldorin lord, except for those scimitars that he had sheathed at his waist. His appearance was unexpected and I fear I stood gaping at him for a moment. He looked remarkable, not at all like he had before. He had clearly seen better days if he knew how to dress so elegantly and look very natural in these very fancy, rich clothes. I was suddenly aware of my own appearance – my clothing dirty and a bit ragged looking – there was a rent in my tunic that had not been there before! - from our spill down the hill and subsequent fall into the lair. My hair was hanging loose, very unkempt, over my shoulders, and stinking of Gurshak! This did not improve my state of mind!  
  
"Indeed," he began before I could draw a breath to say anything, "you have no reason to trust me." He strode over to me and began to unlock my wrists. I could see the bitterness brimming in his one eye as he spoke, his words clipped, betraying the intensity of the emotion he was feeling. "I may have told you that I would try to get *us* out of this mess, but I agree, it was hardly obvious that I meant it." He snorted then, bending swiftly and gracefully to undo my ankles, his resentment obvious.  
  
Once freed, I stepped away from the chains, rubbing my wrists and eyeing Alagaith suspiciously. I did not know what to think of him. He was too full of contradictions by far!  
  
"Why did you do that then?" I demanded, gesturing at Gurshak. "Were you having a bit of fun? Is that it? Well, it was not very funny from where I was standing." I glowered then, tearing my eyes away from him, and striding across the room to take up my sword, and strapped it to my waist.  
  
"As I observed earlier, our senses of humor seem to differ," he said tightly, and I turned to look at him once more, brows knit. 'Senses of humor'? So this *had* been some sort of joke?  
  
"Obviously," I muttered, thinking I would never understand him. I frowned, realizing that something was missing, something very important. "I need to get my dagger before we leave this place," I said to him, knowing that I would not leave here without Celair's last gift to me. "And my bow," I added as an after thought. We might have need of my bow before we left here, and I did not want to face any more goblins with out it! I started for the doorway, then paused, my brows drawing down in agony. "I . . . Valar curse me! I am sorry!" I choked out. "You did manage to unlock the chains, and you did win that duel, and . . . you did free me. Forgive me for doubting your intentions."  
  
That hurt . . . . I doubt he knew how hard it was for me to admit all of this, and since we clearly did not understand one another, I expected him to ignore my heartfelt apology or make some sarcastic remark in return. So naturally what happened next was unexpected.  
  
He stared at me then. Surely, that was not a look of amazement in his eye! His gaze dropped abruptly, and he looked decidedly uncomfortable.  
  
"No need to apologize," he said quietly, almost hesitantly. "I have to ask your forgiveness – for quite a lot of things between cutting your fingers and leaving you chained to that wall. You had every reason for doubting my intentions." He did not look back at me then, telling me quite clearly that he found apologizing as uncomfortable as I did.  
  
I stared at him incredulously for a moment, the silence strange after his reluctant words. Suddenly, I laughed. This had been, without a doubt, the strangest day of my entire life. If anyone had told me that this day would end standing in a cell with a nearly naked goblin, with apologies running rampant between myself and a Noldo – a Noldo for Valar's sake! - even though we both sounded as if we were being forced at knifepoint, I would have called them insane. And yet here we were. I shook my head, bemused.  
  
"No more apologies from either of us," I declared. "It is clearly too painful for us both. Shall we leave then?"  
  
Still not looking at me, he nodded, rather a curt nod, an unenthusiastic one.  
  
"Yes, let us leave," he murmured in a very low voice.  
  
If I had been thinking properly, I would have realized what *he* was thinking, but I had in truth forgotten that he had been my prisoner when we had tumbled into this charming abode; too many things had happened afterward. As it was, I strode from the cell, after carefully making certain that the hall was empty of any more of our gracious hosts. I glanced once more back at Gurshak and sighed, shaking my head. A truly odd day indeed!  
  
"I need my dagger," I told Alagaith by way of explanation as I headed down the hall, deftly re-braiding my hair . . . not nearly as neatly as my companion's, to be sure, but in a serviceable loose braid that at least kept it from my face . . . and the smell of Gurshak's perfumed hands from my nose. "Then we will leave."  
  
I hoped that my confiscated weapons would have been placed in a room near where we had fallen in, for I would not leave with out Don Gwaedh. It was the last thing that Celair had given to me, the last thing she had touched. I would not be parted with it for anything!  
  
Alagaith followed me in silence, and luckily – thank the Valar! - I managed to find my weapons in the third room we checked in, and had not managed to rouse any goblins!  
  
It was a storeroom, lined with racks and barrels. My bow, quiver, and dagger seemed very out of place here, since this room was obviously meant to hold wines and spirits. I could see the marks on the barrels – Elvish, Dwarvish . . . . I raised my brows over this. Who were these goblins?! My weapons had probably been put here since it had been convenient, and they had been busy trying to subdue me at the time.  
  
After slipping my quiver and bow on my back, I picked up Don Gwaedh, sliding it from its protective leather and metal sheath. The bright, sharp metal gleamed in the dim light, as beautiful as the day it had been crafted by my wife's lovely hands. I slid it back into the sheath, and fastened it once more to my belt.  
  
I was feeling quite pleased that things seemed to, finally, be going our way. I turned, a smile on my face as I thought about arriving home very soon. Anirathiel would have something prepared for me to eat, leaving it, covered and warm, on my small table; she was very good about looking after me in this way. She would not be there, but would have come and gone as silently as a little brown mouse, but I would know she had done it. How she managed this, I do not know, but she always did. I was feeling rather hungry suddenly and thought that the sooner we fled this place, the better! And clean sheets! Yes, it would feel good to sleep in my own comfortable bed on clean, fresh smelling sheets . . . after I had washed all the remnants of Gurshak's perfume from my hair. Even if this meant a cold dip in the icy water!  
  
Then my eyes lit on our rope, curled neatly nearby. It would be a useful thing to have since we would probably have to climb out the way we came in, since I did not want to take the time to hunt down a proper doorway. I grinned, remembering our fall . . . when he had been tied up as we journeyed to Gladaran Thamas . . . for his trial . . . . My features fell as I continued to stare at the rope.  
  
I could have kicked myself for forgetting what my duty had been in regards to this. . . no, I could not think of him as 'that Noldo thief' any longer. My duty . . . . It was what ruled my life, gave me purpose, and had for nearly as long as I could remember. I had never shirked a responsibility given to me; I had never failed to carry out a duty that had been given to me. And yet, I was standing here in this goblin storeroom contemplating what should have been unthinkable . . . . I had told my king I would bring Alagaith to Gladaran Thamas for trial . . . a trial with the verdict already a foregone conclusion because of that black mark on his wrist. He would lose his hand and it would be my fault because I had done my duty and stopped him from fleeing when I caught him trying to steal Lalven's cloak. If I had just ignored him back then . . . but I had not. It was too late for 'what ifs'. Either way, someone would be very unhappy with my decision. I merely had to decide whose displeasure, anger, disappointment, hurt I wished to rouse: Thranduil's, Alagaith's, my own . . . .  
  
If I let Alagaith go, then Thranduil would be most unhappy with me, my reputation would be a bit tarnished - I am certain that some of my former students and my peers would look on me aghast or snicker that the high and mighty Master Archer, who allowed no mistakes, had just made a very grave one himself. How important was all of this to me? If I brought Alagaith back for trial . . . .  
  
My decision was not an easy one, and when I did turn to look at Alagaith, I saw that he was pilfering some bottles from the shelf!  
  
~*~*~*~*~*  
  
Our strange adventure was almost over, and glad as I was that we could leave this lovely goblin lair, I would be lying if I claimed that I was not worried, even afraid of what was to come. Although we had been allies for these past few hours, the warrior of Mirkwood had to remember that he had to take a prisoner to his king's hall, and the lowly thief had better recall that he was just that at the moment – a thief on his way to his trial.  
  
Perhaps I could have escaped if I had tried to; I still carried Gurshak's scimitars, and I was quite certain that Tanglinna was not much of a swordsman, and unsuspecting. But I could not have done that, not any more; even though he was rather irritating at times, he might have become a friend under kinder circumstances, in another place and time. I was not going to fight him now, not after what we had been through together, not after I had named him. He certainly believed that 'Mordil' was nothing but a taunt, and, in the beginning, it had been; but now. . . .  
  
I shook my head and told myself that *now* I would have to forget about that name very quickly, for if I arrived at the Wood-Elf King's Hall calling my guard by a nickname that sounded like a mild insult, my sentence would probably be more severe than it would be anyway. As for that, I could only hope that they would get over with the farce that the trial would be in a short time; they had a witness and a confession, so what else did they need? I was not especially keen on learning to live with but one hand, but being forced to do so would still be better than having to wait for the moment that would change things for the worse for weeks and months. . . . But elven justice is seldom in a hurry when it is dealt far away from battlefields where haste is necessary.  
  
Yet, I could almost have been content. Some things could not be changed by acceptable means, but my fate could have been worse. At least, I had not gone straight to the dungeon from Erebor, but had had one very good swordfight before I would lose the hand that held the sword, and I wore good clothes now. They would certainly look less elegant after a prolonged stay in a prison cell, but they were warm and fitted surprisingly well. The dark days I was in for would pass more easily with a good cloak to snuggle in, and perhaps – perhaps! – the Wood-elves would even be kind enough to hand back one of those scimitars when they released me, although they would doubtlessly confiscate them at first. . . . For Gurshak's flamboyant cloak clasp, I dared not hope – it was too valuable, too clearly stolen – for it to be given back to a simple thief. Well. . . hoping for anything was perhaps too bold, anyway – maybe they would take everything, even the goblin's clothing, as it was not something that rightfully belonged to me.  
  
Quietly engaged in these thoughts, I watched Tanglinna search for his weapons and contemplated the storeroom he finally found them in, marvelling at the excellent choice of wines and stronger beverages that it held. The fabled Dorwinion could be found there, but also sweeter kinds of wine from the south and different sorts of liquors, so many different kinds of orcish brandy that sampling all of them would have taken a week's time. . . I modestly limited myself to choosing two especially promising bottles.  
  
Admittedly, it was not very reasonable to take them; I would hardly get the chance to enjoy this brandy, and it was more than likely that Tanglinna would either confiscate the bottles as a further proof of my thievery and wickedness or would put them back where they belonged right now. But there was faint hope that we could, perhaps, tarry a bit on our way to enjoy a sip of brandy before the journey was over. It would have been a better way of ending our peculiar half-friendship kindly than just pretending that what had happened here had not changed anything.  
  
A faint hope, and a vain hope – when I turned away from the impressive collection of bottles to face Tanglinna, he was holding a rope – the very same rope that had tied us together when we had tumbled into the hole. It was quite an ironic thought that it should serve to severe all invisible ties that had been formed. Of course, I did not voice this thought, but only studied Tanglinna's hands for a moment, unwilling to meet his gaze right now.  
  
Then, very quietly, I put down the bottles and removed the scimitars from my belt, slowly and carefully so as not to give Tanglinna the impression that I might use the weapons.  
  
"You can take these", I casually remarked, "or leave them, but I suppose you have no use for scimitars? But you should try the orcish brandy - it is fabulous stuff!" Here, I risked a wink at him and put the scimitars to the ground as well, not feeling quite as calm as I pretended to be. This was what had to be done, and it could not be done in another way, but I was not very happy about it; even worse, I knew very well that the others would not be happy with my decision, either, even though they would understand.  
  
The others. I could well imagine what they would say and do when I would find them again, some months from now. Explaining the matter to Alagant would be easiest, perhaps; he would be terrified to see that ada's hand was gone, but if I told him that the choice had been between getting hurt and hurting or even killing a very good elf who had only done what he had to do, he would understand, and perhaps it was as simple as that, an elfling's notion that harming a nice elf was something you could not do. My father, for his part, would translate the whole matter into a question of honour and grandeur, would hug me fiercely, call me a "foolish elfling", volunteer for guard duty that evening and sit and weep in despair by himself all night long. Well-Armed and Half-Dead would talk to each other in hushed voices and finally come up with a glorious and noble and sensible plan to make life easier for me now that this had happened, and I would be treated like an elfling who could not fend for himself for the next few weeks. Seven, in turn, would be very silent, and in silence, he would listen to the story I had to tell, only his eyes betraying how unhappy he was with it. They would all be most unhappy . . . .  
  
I forced myself not to think of them, but looked at Tanglinna, adding: "There is just one thing you should think about - I will not be able to climb out of this hole with my hands fettered, at least not very well. So, unless you want to drag me up there, you should only use it" – I pointed to the rope – "once we have left this place."  
  
Tanglinna was silent for a moment, studying me, and what thoughts he pondered, I do not know; finally, he raised one brow.  
  
"As to the scimitars, I won't be needing them at all,"he said at last. "You are correct that I have no use for them . . . . I couldn't use them anyway as I have never tried to fight with orc weapons. As to the brandy. . . . . I believe I will try it, but not here. The air is a bit stale, don't you think? As to the rope . . . ."  
  
He paused, looking down at it, dangling from his hands, so very ready to be used there and then. "I thought to use it to get us out of here, not tie you up. I have had enough of Slasher's games for one day, thank you very much." Having stated this, he suddenly grinned and finally chuckled, perhaps finding our whole adventure perfectly laughable now that it was as good as over.  
  
I could not quite share his mirth at that moment, but it was good to know that he trusted me enough, at least for the time being, not to tie me up again on the first occasion that presented itself. Maybe this was not merely an act of kindness; as long as the goblins could still come after us, it would not have been wise for him to fetter his only ally. I suspected that this was also the reason why he did not object when I bent down to pick up the scimitars again – it was in his best interest to leave me a weapon until we were in comparative safety.  
  
Taking the brandy bottles again as well, I nodded. "We should at least try."  
  
Nodding back, Tanglinna turned to lead the way out of the storeroom, making certain with great care that no one was coming to surprise us. Once he was sure of that, he strode down the hall quite confidently, yet silently. Cautious, thorough, able to move in great stealth and probably a very fine archer, he would have been of great use in the kind of warfare Nargothrond had been famous for. I did not say this aloud, however, and not only because this was certainly not the time for a friendly chat. Proud Silvan that Tanglinna was, he might not have considered the observation that he would have made a good Noldorin warrior as a great compliment. And then, even if he had understood that it was not meant as an insult, would he not have assumed that I was trying to flatter him for whatever reasons? Sometimes even kind words are better left unsaid.  
  
Soon, we were standing in the place where our stay in this most interesting dwelling had begun. Tanglinna stared up at the hole we had fallen through, and following his gaze, I discovered that the entrance was barely visible in the dim light now. It had to be evening or even night; we had probably spent quite some time down here.  
  
"Shall we?" my companion asked with a grin. "Before we have company, that is."  
  
I could not help chuckling at this and replied: "Yes . . . .If you do not insist on waiting for your gentle admirer, we can leave now."  
  
Tanglinna snorted. "I believe I will just leave him there . . .wondering what happened. He will probably think that it is some sort of . . . game or something. He might enjoy it."  
  
Fortunately, he did not elaborate his thoughts on Gurshak's possible views of the situation any further, but made a loop at the end of the rope with deft fingers and tossed it. It caught on a hook rather high up in the hole that I had not noticed before and that was barely detectable in the dark. I had to concede that Tanglinna's aim had to be excellent if he had managed to hit it in the first try, and if his pleased smile was anything to judge by, he knew this very well and had realized that I was impressed.  
  
Turning to me, he enquired: "Do you want to go up first? And . . . just how are we going to get those bottles of brandy up there?"  
  
Content as I was that he had finally understood that I would not leave him in this hole if he allowed me to climb up first, I had to grin a bit when he asked his second question; oh, innocent archer of Mirkwood! He clearly did not think too much about the best way of transporting loot efficiently. If this had only been about leaving quickly, I would have suggested that each of us should take a bottle, for using the loose part of a cloak to form a convenient bundle or stuffing our booty under our tunics for the short climb would have been perfectly possible, but I had to bear in mind that this was not the kind of thing Tanglinna was familiar with, and I did not want one of those bottles dropped because someone was not really convinced of what we were doing – that would have been a waste of brandy, and the noise would have alerted the goblins to our departure.  
  
So I answered: "As you have every reason not to trust me, you may go up first - and pull up the bottles; I will just tie them to the rope . . . . I promise to follow."  
  
Tanglinna raised a brow, but he nodded and took the rope in his hands to climb out of the lair. I remained behind, wondering whether he had, perhaps, been hiding a grin when he had left.  
  
When the brandy bottles and I had finally reached the surface as well, Tanglinna took the rope, one end still looped inside; he did not look at it, though, but gazed at me with that sort of unreadable expression that the Silvan elves are famous for. "Well, "he began at last, "here we are again . . . ."  
  
Here we were again indeed, and our journey could continue from the point where it had been interrupted so roughly. Perhaps Alagaith Alagaerion should have bidden Tanglinna Thindalagosion farewell now that the prisoner and the guard were about to return, but both Tanglinna and the stern warrior of Mirkwood who was supposed to take me to my trial would have shaken the head over my strange ideas, and so I remained silent and only nodded impassively.  
  
Tanglinna was watching my face intently. "So, do you think we need this rope?" he slowly enquired, perhaps aware that he was putting bonds heavier and stronger than a mere rope on me with this simple question. He asked for my good will and compliance, offering trust. It seemed the silver peacock had finally understood what tactics to use with me.  
  
I gave him a wry, but somewhat grateful grin and replied: "I will try not to be too troublesome a prisoner." There – it was said, a promise made, and Tanglinna probably knew me well enough by then to be certain that it would be kept.  
  
He smiled and dropped the rope on the ground with a shrug. "I guess we don't need it any longer then."   
  
*~*~*~*~*  
  
I knew what Alagaith must have been thinking. He looked entirely too resigned to his rather unpleasant fate – most unlike himself. . . or what little I knew of him - and though I knew he would logically assume I was taking him back to Mirkwood and certain unpleasant punishments, I did not tell him that for once in all my life I was not going to do the logical thing, not obey an order from my king, not do my duty.  
  
This had been an easier decision to make than I would have thought. Why was it not harder to set aside a lifetime of rigid rules and beliefs, of never thinking much beyond what I had been told to do by someone in power over me? It should have been an agonizing decision, yet it was not. I could not say for certain when the moment happened that I no longer considered Alagaith a mere nuisance of a prisoner, a skulking cutpurse, who undoubtedly deserved whatever punishment he was going to receive.  
  
At some point on this day he had become something much more than that. If I had known him longer than our few days' acquaintance, nay, a few hours in a goblin's lair, I think I might have called him a friend. He had exhibited qualities that I found admirable and that existed all too rarely in people. He may have been rather sharp-tongued at times, but then I was that way on occasion as well. He was irritating. . . but I had been called that also. And except for the fact that he was trying to steal Lalven's cloak when I met him . . . .well, I had on occasions made errors in judgment. That had been one of those times. Even if I had not felt a certain obligation to him for saving me from Gurshak's clutches, I believe I owed him something for throwing his life, which was probably not an easy one, into greater turmoil and torment. He had a child, a family. They needed him. And if those were not enough reasons to let him go, I admit I liked him and did not want to see him lose a hand over what he had done. I knew that this was not much of an excuse, but it was enough of an excuse for me . . . at least this time.  
  
I smiled thinking on his phrase about being a 'troublesome prisoner'. Yes, he had certainly been that and then some!  
  
"Let us get away from here as quickly as possible. I don't want Gurshak getting free and coming after us with his charming friends," I said briskly, with a last glance at that fateful hole. In the dim light it would have been completely invisible unless you knew where to look. It needed to be marked so there would be no poor hapless elves falling into their lair any more; blocked up or filled in. . . but not that night.  
  
I turned away abruptly, putting the hole and Gurshak behind me. I drew a breath of cold air, scented with that unique crispness that only autumn holds. The wind was from the northwest, invigorating, smelling of the decaying leaves and rich earth. Everything was falling into slumber for the winter; the trees stripped bare, branches rattling in the light wind. Though it felt like autumn and smelled of it, there was a mere hint of spring in the air.  
  
The leaves that crunched underfoot had been new bright green leaflets not so very long ago. They had shaded us beneath their verdant coolness in the summer, but then they began to show their age as they began to turn into their brilliant best just before they turned brown and died, torn by a wind such as this one from the tree to fly off in their last moment of glory before adorning the chill ground. Now they lay beneath our feet, forgotten and decaying, and in doing so nourished the new leaves that would appear the next spring. The never-ending seasons . . . . The never-ending changes . . . .  
  
Life was like those leaves: we see things so clearly and blaze in the glory of our knowledge and understanding, often producing only arrogance and intolerance. But then one day the wind changes and things are no longer what they once were. Old ideas and beliefs change and are torn to shreds in the wind if they do not fall away immediately. All things change in their season . . . even stubborn old Silvans like myself. I had certainly not expected an autumnal wind of change in the form of a Noldorin thief to be the one to bring about such change in my life, but he had.  
  
Back in the dark of Gurshak's lair, my decision to let him go had been born. I had seen beyond the thief to the person, the true person that resided within. I had not told him of this yet, and he would no doubt be somewhat . . . surprised. The Valar knew that I was!  
  
I could hear him walking behind me, obediently as a trained hound. Yet I knew his heart must be filled with dread and even fear. Mine certainly would have been. The anxiety he must be feeling for his child – and his orc friend - must have been great as well. What must they be feeling? He had not returned to them, and they would be as worried about him as he was about them. The time had come to ease all that unease and fear.  
  
"Oh, yes," I said nonchalantly, still striding along ahead of him, a smile he could not see on my lips. "You are no longer my prisoner, so you do not have to follow me if you do not wish to."  
  
I quickened my pace away from him, giving him the opportunity to slip away quietly into the gathering night, to safety, to his family, who would rejoice to see him relatively unharmed and with the most fantastic tale to tell.  
  
I heard him come to an abrupt halt, and I smiled, though I admit to feeling just a touch of melancholy that our strange friendship was now over and I would probably never see him again. But then, he was in front of me, his face filled with confusion.  
  
"Wait!" he said, looking a bit comical carrying those bottles as he was, and I hid a grin. "I do thank you for your kind intentions," he began, his face a bit flushed, his voice sounding worried, "but . . . are you quite aware of what you are doing? You know what the punishment for letting a prisoner escape on purpose is?!"  
  
Actually, I did not. I had never let a prisoner escape before, on purpose or otherwise – I had nearly healed fingers to prove it! But I answered, "Yes, I am quite aware that Thranduil will be . . . displeased with me for letting you go." Undoubtedly, he would be. Alagaith had wounded his pride, a hurt not as easily dismissed perhaps as a physical one; and finding that I had let this Noldo escape me – on purpose! – would make him wonder how I had felt when Alagaith had won their verbal sparring match. No one got away with besting the king in a game of exchanged quips and sarcastic wit . . . only Alagaith would and it was because I had let him go.  
  
I smiled wryly as I thought of this. Alagaith may not be spending any time in the dungeons beneath Gladaran Thamas, but I would. Undoubtedly, there were some gloriously blank walls that needed my attention. My smile turned into a smirk as I regarded my dear Linlote.  
  
"Do you think I fear his wrath?" I asked him, puffing up a bit, one brow raised jauntily, and then bit back a chuckle for I feared I looked exactly like the silver peacock he had named me.  
  
He snorted a bit at my bravado.  
  
"I do not know – you mask your fear rather will if you wish to," he said with a grin of his own. Just what was he implying?? Surely, I had not appeared that frantic earlier. . . well, perhaps I had played the damsel in distress a little too well . . . or the elf who panicked all too easily when a goblin named Gurshak had appeared. "But," he continued in a more serious tone, his grey eye growing dark, "I have gotten you into enough trouble today. . . so forget about your grand gesture quickly."  
  
He had indeed caused me enough trouble today, but I would not be deterred into doing something that I knew to be wrong. He was free to go, and go he would whether he liked it or not. Grand gesture indeed! And to think, they called us Silvans stubborn and willful! We had nothing on those Noldor!  
  
"I beg to differ with you," I said, raising one brow again, crossing my arms over my chest, trying my best to look like a "Mordil" – it was not very hard really – and regarded him sternly. "You have no say whatsoever in this decision . . . .Or have you forgotten that your son and your friend are waiting for you? Give them both my greeting when you see them. Hmph! A Noldo will never tell me what I can or cannot do."  
  
I turned away, hiding my amused smile, which would have spoiled this grand charade of the indignant Silver Peacock. But it seemed that the Skulking Cutpurse was not was not going to let me win so easily.  
  
"Even if 'a Noldo' may not tell you what to do," he said in a voice that sounded more amused than anything, "some advice and a humble request should be permitted."  
  
I rearranged my rebellious features into a mask of mild annoyance and longsuffering, and turned back to him.  
  
"And what might that 'advice' and 'humble request' be, pray tell?" I asked, staring at him in the dim light of evening.  
  
"The advice?" He smiled slightly, brandishing those bottles he had, hm, 'acquired' in Gurshak's storeroom. "To try this orcish brandy. As for the humble request – I know I am already indebted to you, but you would earn even more of my gratitude if you chose to give my wife's comb back to me. You can keep the rest of those things if it will help you to craft a convincing tale about my sudden escape, but the comb . . . ."  
  
The earnestness in his voice, and a too well-known look in his eye touched my heart. His wife's comb . . . . That would explain why he carried such a delicate thing on his person. It was a memento of her, a touchstone, something that kept her near him even if she could not be with him. I smiled ruefully and began to unfasten the pouch at my waist. I remember those first days after Celair had been taken from me, and how I wandered about our small house touching her things as if they still held a small piece of her in them, holding one of her nightgowns to my face, drinking in her scent, burying my face in her pillow at night, a pillow soon drenched with my own bitter, sorrowful tears of loss and anguish.  
  
"I have indeed been rather rude and remiss," I said, wondering if my voice sounded as hoarse to him as it did to me. "Of course, I shall return your belongings . . . *all* of them." I pulled the pouch off and handed it to him, watching as he juggled the bottles then set them down to fasten the pouch to his own waist. "I did not realize that the comb was that important." I laughed slightly at this; everything, no matter how small and seemingly insignificant took on new meaning when that loved one was gone. "I am sure it is all important to you, but something that belonged to one's wife is indeed very special and should not be trifled with." I smiled at him, watching as he stared a bit incredulously at me. The moment had become entirely too serious, so I grinned, cocking one brow and nodding at the bottles he had picked up once more. "I have never had orcish brandy before, so I will take your advice and try some before I go home." Indeed. Why would I have tried orcish brandy before? *Did* orcs make brandy?? It did not matter. I smiled at him, a genuine smile filled with warmth and good feelings. "Let us just get a bit further away from . . . Gurshak and his friends."  
  
I did not relish the thought of that strange trio coming upon us in the dark, with us drinking up their brandy.  
  
He nodded at me, and I turned once more, heading away from our adventure in a hole in the ground. After a moment's silence, he spoke to me.  
  
"What will you tell your king?" he asked, still sounding worried. "The truth?"  
  
I snorted at this. The truth? I chuckled then; truly, he was quite funny.  
  
"Hardly! That is, not unless I have no choice. I daresay though, that this tale is fantastic enough that he would not believe it if I were to tell the entire truth!" I gazed back at Alagaith then. I would need to set his fears to rest entirely. "Why are you so worried? You should be far from here by then. He isn't likely to catch you."  
  
No, Thranduil would not be pleased that I had let Alagaith go, but he would not expend any energy hunting down a mere robber of the dead, or 'would be' robber of the dead.  
  
Alagaith shook his head at my reassurances.  
  
"*I* will be out of harm's way, that is true . . . . But *you* will be right there."  
  
I studied him for a moment, amazed and surprisingly touched by this.  
  
"You are worried about *me*?" I asked with brows raised once more. Honestly, I think I had caught the "wigglies" from Thranduil! He was worried about my safety. . . . An odd, pleasant warmth spread through me and I smiled at him, more touched than I could say. "You needn't worry on that account," I assured him. "The king and I . . . we do, on occasion, have differences of . . . opinion and, well . . . there is not much he would or could do to me that you need worry about." A little time in the dungeons was usually the punishment he meted out to me on the times he felt I needed my wings clipped a bit. Not much of a punishment, but then Thranduil knew that. I smiled thinking of what the expression on my king's face would be when I told him that Alagaith was gone. I suspected that it would be a rather *long* stay in the dungeons. "Do not worry," I quipped, echoing Alagaith's words to me earlier, just to let him know that I did not hold his moment of fun against him any longer. "All is well now!"  
  
He laughed a bit at this, looking relieved.  
  
"I do hope so," he said, his expression growing a bit cocky. "Otherwise, I might be forced to have a word or two with the king." Then he winked at me, eye sparkling and I felt my heart swell with happiness, knowing that my decision to free him had indeed been the only thing I could do.  
  
"Yes, I imagine you could do just that, and quite well to!" I chuckled then, thinking it might be fun to watch Alagaith and Thranduil crossing words once more in less dire circumstances. "I fear that would make him much more displeased than he will when he finds out that I let you go." I smiled at him then and he smiled back. It had been a long time since I had felt this at ease talking with someone, especially someone that I barely knew. Yet I believe that I knew him better than some people I had know for many years.  
  
"Why will you let me go then, if you know that he will not be pleased?" he asked quietly as we walked along through the quiet of the forest. "It does not seem the wisest thing to do."  
  
It was not wise in the least, and I laughed at this astute observation.  
  
"We Wood-elves are not known for being wise, my dear Linlote. I will make my own decision in things regardless of their wisdom . . . ." I frowned slightly, knowing that when I had made certain decisions in the past, they had proved to be my undoing. But I laughed again, and turned to look at him. "I chose to let you go," I said. "It is as simple as that."  
  
He smiled then, probably finding this a slightly less than satisfactory answer, but he shrugged and we continued on in companionable silence, listening to the breeze in the treetops. It was a very fine evening, very fine indeed. I drew another breath, feeling very contented and rather pleased with the way the day had ended, regardless of its rather strange beginning and middle. A fine evening and a fine ending . . . .  
  
~*~*~*~*~*  
  
TBC 


	9. Chapter 8 Final Conversations

Alagaith is standing in front of the printer, silently muttering to himself in various languages; a listener well versed in the tongues of the different peoples of Middle-earth could understand very... unusual curses in Sindarin, Eastern Orcish and even Quenya levelled at the innocent machine.  
  
One listener certainly hears and understands them. "Is something the matter, Linlote?" Tanglinna asks with a grin. "Is the printer giving you a hard time?" His grin widens at this thought.  
  
The 'skulking cutpurse' looks up with a frown, but manages to grin then. "If I understand the subtle and difficult language of printers correctly, it wants the attentions of *your* gentle hands, Mordil..." he replies, inclining his head ever so slightly. "It does not like me any more." This said, he straightens up and steps back to allow Tanglinna access to the troublesome printer.  
  
The Master Archer continues to grin as he moves to stand by the computer and kneels before the printer, looking back at Alagaith, eyes alight with merriment. This joyous moment of seeing Linlote defeated by a mere printer must be enjoyed, and so, it is lovingly dragged out while Tanglinna gently strokes the top of the printer, murmuring to it in Silvan, not swearing at it, but putting his old language to better use.  
  
Very slowly, his fingers move to the PRINT button and he gently presses it and waits as the printer comes to life, neatly beginning to print out the reviews. "You must be kind to them, Linlote...speak softly to them, encourage them," he explains, sounding every inch the oh-so-patient Master Archer explaining a very simple thing to a somewhat dense youngling. Giving the printer a final pat, he stands and smirks at his companion.  
  
Alagaith inclines his head again, more deeply this time. "I bow in awe! Your skills are most amazing, o tamer of printers and fell computers." Winking at the valiant peacock, he reaches for the printed pages.  
  
'Mordil' continues to smile, feeling a little too pleased with himself - taming that wild beast of a machine was not easy!  
  
He is allowed to enjoy this lovely feeling for some further moments, as Alagaith starts to read the reviews now and is occupied for some time. Reading, he frowns, and he finally puts down the pages with a rather unhappy expression. "I fear I made a grave mistake when I chose to... talk to you down in that dungeon and left you chained to the wall a bit longer than necessary... we should not have told them about that part." He sighs, looking genuinely saddened and even a bit disappointed – how could he have known that the readers would not consider this part of the story as most entertaining?  
  
"Whyever not?" Tanglinna enquires. "It was something that Oropher might have done if he were feeling in a particularly...hm...merry, mischievous mood. I was in no danger at that point in time and well...you had your fun and it is over and I admit that I might - might, mind you - have thought it funnier if it were happening to someone else and not me. So, cheer up! That part is past. If it helps, I would have been angry with Oropher too."  
  
He gives his friend an encouraging grin, wondering if he will have to "be kind, speak softly" and encouragingly to Alagaith to make him continue with his work at the present moment.  
  
If Alagaith was aware that sulking a little longer would lead to a lot of attention and kind and comforting words, he would doubtlessly consider leaving the melancholy expression in place for some further minutes, but self-pity and whining have never gotten him anywhere until now, and so, the dejected face quickly turns resolute again. "Very well... Let us start, then! I guess I can be quite glad that kingmaker decided that our last conversation redeemed me somewhat... It was kind of him to... reconsider what he had said earlier."  
  
Tanglinna smiles at his companion. "Most of us speak in haste, my dear Linlote. You and I certainly do...and well, so do adars on occasion...well, speaking and acting are not quite the same thing, but you know what I mean. When one's blood runs hot on certain things...sometimes there is no stopping what you say...or do...unless you get hit over the head with a bow." Now, he looks decidedly uncomfortable. "Yes, you are redeemed...somewhat." He grins, trying not to look behind him to see if, by ill chance, another Noldo has appeared there, one that looks remarkably like Alagaith, only older and. . . scarier. "Well, WeasleyTwinsLover1112 thought that it was funny...if mean...but funny! See?"  
  
At this, Alagaith smiles quite happily. "Yes! And Miss Aranel understands that the opportunity to joke was just too good to pass up..." Hearing Miss Aranel's whisper, he winks at her a little and whispers back: "Thank you, mellon-nin!"  
  
Hoping that Tanglinna has not understood too much of the little private conversation, he continues aloud: "And, as Ptath points out, we managed to make up, after all. By the way, you should really answer her question... I would like to hear about the other times you spend in the dungeons as well - that would certainly be most interesting." He grins, doubtlessly seeing most interesting images before his inner eye now.  
  
Tanglinna looks inscrutable. "They are very boring tales, Linlote. No one would wish to hear them...trust me." His cheeks redden slightly, diminishing the effect of the famous inscrutable gaze a little. "It seems Ptath knows me only TOO well!" He mutters under his breath. "How embarrassing!" Then he clears his throat, frowning again. "It seems that Venyatuima knows me too well also. The fireworks are...arriving soon...in a story near you. Hmph! They know me too well, Linlote!" Not exactly pleased by this observation, he folds his arms over his chest and sighs.  
  
'Linlote' chuckles. "They do indeed... Poor Mordil! So does the evil witch queen, by the way - she seems to know very well what that orcish brandy might do to you..." The amused gleam in his eye might indicate that he knows even more than the evil witch queen in this regard, but he chooses not to elaborate and merely continues with a grin: "But look! Hel has a most interesting suggestion... She says we should paint the dungeon walls together!"  
  
Tanglinna laughs at this thought. "Yes, that would be most fun, don't you think? But I suspect that if we did it together, some of the pictures would be even less likely to be ... appreciated by the king."  
  
Although he chuckles, he is only too aware that this is very true; Thranduil would NEVER let them out until they had whitewashed over all their lovely portraits...about 1,000 times, that is, and working with nothing more than a tiny paintbrush. And there is yet another terrifying prospect attached to this dreadful vision: "We would never see orcish brandy again! And then we could not share it with Dis Thrainsdotter, who is wondering what it tastes like!"  
  
"You are right - that would be most distressing..." Alagaith solemnly agrees. "Perhaps we should send her a bottle before we get into trouble, don't you think? Oh, and amlugwen? Take the orc and the elf out of your clothes chest again, please! I am sure the poor things can hardly breathe if they have been in there for weeks now!"  
  
The Master Archer laughs, hoping that the orc and elf have not strangled one another after being in such close quarters. "I am not afraid of a little kiss, orc - what is your name? But I did not want to be kissed by that...kisser...that is all." He grins slightly. "Did you want to kiss the elf you were closeted with? Probably not!" He decides not to pursue that subject any further, though – who knows what sort of secrets might be uncovered if he asked too many questions? Smiling, he adds: "Hel, you are quite right! I should tell Thranduil about the storeroom with all the wonderful Dorwinion and wines. He will be quite jealous that they have so many!"  
  
Alagaith grins widely, fell glee shining in his eye. "Yes, tell him about it!" he eagerly agrees. "I do wish to catch that king breaking into a storeroom...." At this point, he realizes what he is saying and blushes a little. "Oh, very well. I fear I am very bad again, daw the minstrel is probably right in her description of me..." He does his best to look contrite, but not for very long.  
  
Tanglinna laughs again. "You are fooling no one, Linlote. You are irrepressible and you know it! And you like it! I think you would like to catch Thranduil breaking into a goblin's storeroom! Hm...I wonder if chocolate goes best with orcish brandy or Dorwinion....What do you think, Karianua?" He smiles at her. "She seems very glad that I let you go, mellon." Turning to grin at Alagaith, he continues: "She said that the readers would never forgive me if I had not and if you had lost your hand, it would have marred your perfection." His eyes sparkle with delight. "You are quite the charmer after all!"  
  
It is Alagaith's turn to laugh. "Again - I did not realize that... And if there was ever perfection, it has already been marred for a long time..." He briefly lifts a hand with a branded wrist to touch an eye patch covering a terrible scar. "I will rather agree with Lutris and say that the important thing is that we are friends again... Hm, again? Were we friends before?" He contemplates Tanglinna rather earnestly now.  
  
Tanglinna ponders the question for a moment. "That is ...difficult to say. We had an uneasy alliance, I suppose, and I believe I had some ...not so evil thoughts about you...when I did not want to strangle you, that is." He grins again. "But the important thing is that we are friends now." Looking slightly peacocky, but chuckling a bit, he informs the poor cutpurse: "If ever you DO bicker with Thranduil again, you will need me to be your friend!"  
  
Alagaith smiles. "If you decide to be my friend just then, we *will* end up painting the dungeon walls together, I am quite sure! But that could be... amusing."  
  
"Amusing is good." Tanglinna decides with a grin. "So...how are you with a paint brush?"  
  
Alagaith grins back. "Wait and see, Mordil.... But on with the chapter now!"  
  
Chapter 8 – Final Conversations  
  
Never had I expected such kindness, nor did I deserve it. I had stolen, Tanglinna knew this very well, and even if he had generously chosen to forget under which circumstances we had first met, there was no sensible reason to let me go; I had not behaved impeccably, and even if there had been some moments of unexpected closeness that had, perhaps, caused him to pity me, I was amazed and moved that he was ready to incur the king's wrath and all unpleasant consequences merely to spare me just punishment.  
  
His decision to let me escape could not have been as simple and natural as he claimed, especially since he seemed to be aware that what he was doing would not remain unpunished, and remembering three rather grim years spent in Mithlond under circumstances I will not detail here, I could well imagine what he was in for. I could only hope that they would choose to be lenient with him; he was a respected warrior of some importance, after all! Surely they would not simply cast him into some dank and gloomy hole and forget about him? By this time, I felt rather ashamed for my less than thoughtful joke down in the goblin lair.  
  
We had walked through the darkening woods for some time, Tanglinna leading the way and, hopefully, knowing where he was taking us, when my companion stopped in a small grove, a pleasant place to sit and talk for a while under the starlit sky.  
  
Tanglinna took off his cloak and spread it for us to sit on; at this time of the year, the ground was already chill, as I knew rather too well. Taking a seat and gesturing for me to do so as well, he said: "I have a question, if I might ask it." Polite and casual as these words sounded, I could see the curiosity in his eyes.  
  
Sitting down next to him, I nodded, secretly hoping that he would not enquire about things I preferred to remain safely locked away in a dark corner of my head, but resolved to answer honestly in any case; there would probably never be a better way of showing him my gratitude, so I would not treat him as a stranger, but as a friend entitled to ask whatever question came to his mind. "Ask away!"  
  
Fortunately, Tanglinna's question proved to be not too indiscreet, but rather flattering; for while I was placing the bottles on the ground in front of us, he began: "I realize now that you were performing for Gurshak when you acted as though you had never handled scimitars before. Obviously you are a master with them. How is it that an elf would know how to handle orcish blades so very well? Was it your orc friend that taught you? I was . . . most impressed."  
  
He then smiled, not at me, however, but as if some amusing thought that he would not share had crossed his mind, and reached for one of the bottles to open it.  
  
I found myself smiling as well, delighted that he had noticed my skill with a blade, after all, and had chosen to comment on it. I took pride in my swordsmanship, and seeing it appreciated by someone who had termed me 'skulking cutpurse' with some measure of disdain not very long ago was pleasant, although I had to admit that in the kind of life I led, being less of a swordsman, but more of a skulking cutpurse would have been useful at times, as that Mithlond episode long ago had proved only too well.  
  
"Thank you." I replied. "Seven taught me, yes.... And I tried to teach him to use a straight sword." There may have been the slightest emphasis on the word 'tried' – Seven had certainly been a willing student with a sound grasp on the theory of swordplay, but he would always remain an archer at heart, wielding a sword or scimitar only because his crippled hand would not allow him to use his chosen weapon any more. Forcing myself not to get lost in dismal thoughts, I added with a chuckle: "But apparently, I fooled both Gurshak and you in the first place!"  
  
Tanglinna snorted, his smile betraying that he was not quite as offended as he pretended to be, and handed me the brandy bottle he had managed to uncork, starting to open the second one while he answered: "I was indeed impressed. I am . . . admittedly not a great swordsman myself, but I have seen some in my lifetime. You are very good. I suspect that you would even have impressed my father-in-law - no mean feat that!" Turning to smile at me, he continued: "You are a much better actor than I am as well. I was fooled indeed!" He laughed then, not bitterly, but in an amused manner, and I was glad to hear the merry noise that indicated that the horrors of the past hours were receding, giving way to a calmer way of viewing the situation in all its glorious ridiculousness.  
  
I briefly wondered what kind of father-in-law Tanglinna had had if he spoke of him in such a manner now, but although he had mentioned him out of his free will, I hesitated to ask about family matters. I did not want to appear too inquisitive, and for once in my life, I remembered that Seven kept telling me that I usually asked rather too many questions once someone or something had caught my attention. So I only replied with a wink: "You were convincing enough... Gurshak was very pleased with you, that was all that mattered."  
  
Studying him for a moment, I added: "Even if you claim not to be a great swordsman, you have a good sword... I bet you only need some lessons."  
  
Tanglinna laughed at this, apparently not convinced at all by my kind words. "I have had some lessons! And hard lessons they were! My father-in-law had no patience with what he saw as my utter lack of talent in handling a sword. I do not recall how many sharp blows to my wrist I received during those 'lessons'. As an archer, my wrists are a bit important, so the lessons only continued so long before...they stopped...less than an amicable parting." With a wry smile, he lifted his right hand, contemplating his wrist. "He did make me that sword though. So perhaps he thought that if the weapon were impressive enough my enemies would flee before I had to fight them." Chuckling slightly, he went on: "Your friend...Seven? ...he must have been an excellent swordsman...or scimitarman?" Chuckling again, probably at this daring neologism, he sniffed the brandy.  
  
I, for my part, snorted with laughter, and not at the interesting new word. "Seven, an excellent swordsman? Well... he can handle a sword... if he must. But he was an excellent archer once." Realizing that I was telling this somebody who was probably a very good archer himself – would the other Mirkwood warriors have called him 'the Master Archer' if his skills had only been average? – I grinned a bit; I seemed to attract archers for some inexplicable reason, but as experience had taught me that archers make the very best friends for equally inexplicable reasons, I was quite content with this observation.  
  
"An archer?" Tanglinna enquired, amazement mixing with curiosity on his face and finally giving way to a smile. "I...I think I might....might like to meet your Seven at some point," he continued, and, hesitantly as these words were uttered, they sounded honest and sincere nonetheless. "Where did you meet him?"  
  
Without waiting for an answer to this question, he turned his attention to the brandy bottle he was holding. "Orcs made this?" he enquired, gazing up at me again and not looking entirely comfortable with the thought of sampling the brandy. I did not blame him; the first time I had been confronted with this wondrous beverage, I had been sceptic, even suspicious, as well.  
  
Now, I simply nodded. "Yes.... But it is usually very good.... Elves don't die from it, I can testify to that!" Oh yes, I could – trying to estimate what an amount of orcish brandy I had consumed since Seven had coaxed me into trying a sip of it back in the First Age, I miserably failed and chuckled at the futility of my attempt. "As for meeting Seven, well... that was near a farmhouse on the outskirts of the forest of Brethil." This sounded perfectly harmless, and remembering how dangerous the situation had been at first, and what had finally come of it, I shook my head in amusement. "Not a happy meeting at first!"  
  
"Brethil...." Tanglinna murmured with a little smile; perhaps, he, too, had memories attached to this name. The moment of nostalgia passed quickly, however, and he chortled: "I can well imagine that any meeting with an elf and an orc would not be happy...at first."  
  
As if these difficulties of forming an acquaintance did not only exist between elves and orcs, but also between elves and orcish brandy, he frowned at the bottle again.  
  
It probably was the right time to prove to him that neither the orcs themselves nor their brandy were quite that terrible. "Oh, he actually saved my life back then...." I answered, able to think about that scene quite calmly now, although I had been very scared when I had been in the situation; unheroic as this may be, I had not wanted to die, and if dying had been inevitable, I would at least have preferred not to die at the hands of two frightened robbers. "The man he was travelling with would have preferred to cut my throat." Having stated this, I took a first sip of brandy, doing my best to look completely nonchalant.  
  
Tanglinna's eyes widened. "Truly? An Orc wanted to save your life from a Man who wanted to take it?" He appeared quite puzzled by this unexpected revelation, but I did not tell him that I had been equally surprised back then. "Why would he want to save your life?"  
  
It was probably a good thing that he decided to take a small swallow of brandy then after a last suspicious glance at the bottle, choking at the strength of the unfamiliar beverage. Once he was full of orcish brandy and feeling warm and contented, my friendship with Seven would seem less peculiar and disturbing to him – and there was hope that he would drink on. "That is much stronger than Dorwinion!" he remarked with a grin, and apparently, this observation did not deter him from taking a second careful, swallow. "It is quite good actually. Are you certain orcs made it?"  
  
I did not quite manage to hide my grin and replied. "I am quite certain, yes.... Imagine lovely orc ladies if it is easier for you, then." Pondering the question whether Tanglinna would be able to imagine a lovely orc lady – or a female orc at all – I took another sip of brandy, enjoying the rich taste and admitting to myself that, in this one respect, Gurshak and his companions had likings that I shared. Remembering the question I had been asked, I added: "And Seven wanted to save my life because he saw no good reason to take it."  
  
This was true indeed, and although, tied to my tree, I had found it hard to believe that there should be an orc who would only harm another creature when dire necessity was given, I had not doubted Seven's sincerity for a single instant, even though his reasons had remained obscure to me at that time. He had meant what he had said, and with that sudden, almost frightening eloquence of his, usually well hidden by his quiet nature, but put to good use when it mattered, he had convinced Strongsword to spare me.  
  
Smiling a bit, I added: "I told you he was kind and noble... Just believe me!"  
  
Tanglinna blinked a bit at this, whether at the "lovely orc ladies" or at Seven's being "kind and noble", I did not know. I was relieved to find no disdain or fear, but only curiosity in the keen silver eyes studying me; finally, he smiled kindly, and, most surprisingly, replied: "You have been very fortunate in your friends then. I...will believe you."  
  
I could tell that he had not spoken lightly, and as if he felt amazed and troubled by his own words, he frowned a little. His generous statement was hard to reconcile with what a warrior of his rank and standing believed and had to believe, raised to consider orcs as his sworn enemies and as wretched creatures.  
  
I knew very well how it felt to be utterly convinced of this only to be confronted with something that did not fit into this familiar, comforting pattern of thoughts and beliefs, and remembering very well how suspicious and wary I had remained during the first days spent in Seven's company, fearing to discover the true, wicked orc behind his apparent kindness at any time, I chuckled a bit. "Do not be polite! I did not trust him completely at first, either... But that changed after I had travelled with him and Strongsword - the charming man who wanted to see me dead at first - for some time."  
  
Those days of initial distrust and hesitance seemed far away now, but thinking back, they were fairly amusing to remember, and many good memories came back to me then, the astonishing discovery that the strange orc who had saved me could sing, and quite well, at that, first conversations, and, more importantly, getting used to Seven's silently studying people for a long time, and, in turn, sudden and surprisingly blunt remarks – "I thought I knew a lot about elves, but I was not aware they could write!" – shared laughter, shared danger, and, most importantly, the timid beginnings of friendship.  
  
It is a rare and special thing to find understanding and kindness in someone you have not met under circumstances that invite comradeship and easy trust, but it does happen on occasion; and those enigmatic archers who can make it happen make the very best sort of friends.  
  
For a moment, the bitter thoughts of the last days were forgotten, and gazing up at the stars, I felt like a very lucky, happy elf. I had good friends, a son and a father; I was free again, with both my hands, and I had new clothes, two beautiful scimitars and an almost full bottle of brandy. Taking another sip, I smiled to myself.  
  
Tanglinna stared at me in amazement. "You travelled with the Man who wanted you dead?" he asked, his voice breaking my peaceful reverie, and turning to look at him, it struck me that, for all his prowess with weapons and experience with warfare, he had probably led a protected, secure sort of life at least in one sense. What did he know of rapidly shifting alliances, of learning to trust someone who had wanted your head, or of fearing that a friend would be ready to fight you because of a seemingly small thing, an item desperately needed discovered on the battlefield by both of you at the same time?   
Fortunately, he did not seem to expect an answer, but went on: "How many...how many of you are travelling together? Is it just you and your son and ... Seven?" He hesitated the slightest bit before he used this nickname, and hearing it spoken in such a voice, I understood how odd the fact that someone was referred to by a word that was not a name, and not even a term commonly used antonomastically or obviously describing some distinctive trait.  
  
"Seven' is only a nickname, short for 'Seven fingers'," I explained. "His real name is Sharhur. - Apart from him and Alagant, there are three others, Well-Armed and Half-Dead and my father."  
  
I listed them with a smile, feeling some pride that these people, and no others, were my closest friends and family, and briefly, I wondered whether it would provoke an amusing reaction if I told Tanglinna their real names; in the end, I decided against revealing who they were, for not even taking into account that Half-Dead and Well-Armed would not have been overly pleased with me, it was unlikely that Tanglinna would have believed me. I did not want him to assume that I was boasting and making up fantastic tales.  
  
Tanglinna suddenly frowned. "Seven fingers?" he enquired, sounding somewhat puzzled. "Why is he called that?"  
  
I met his gaze calmly, unwilling to turn the answer to his question into the telling of a tragic story, even though it was one. "He lost three fingers on his right hand - that is why he is not an archer any more."  
  
While other things – our chosen names, or the friendship between an orc and elf – must have seemed strange and puzzling to Tanglinna, this was something he instantly understood; eyes flickering with emotion, he held up his right hand, the one holding the brandy, and studied it for a moment before he frowned again, brows furrowing. "I am very sorry to hear that." he began, and he sounded as if he meant it, in spite of the fact that we were talking about an orc, a creature not worth very much in his eyes. "I...I don't know what I would do if I lost the fingers of my draw hand...."  
  
He gazed at me, studying me once more, and for a short time, before his eyes moved away again, I believed to read a silent question in them, but he did not ask, and I did not tell him that, unable to wield a bow any more, Seven had had no choice but to become a guard in Morgoth's mines, hardly the right place for anybody, but least of all for kind, gentle Seven, albeit I had reason to be very glad that he had been there for some time.  
  
Tanglinna cleared his throat and then took another swallow. "Well-Armed and Half-Dead?" he asked, probably preferring a slight change in topic after having come close to pitying an orc. "You do have odd nicknames for your friends. What is yours?" He drank some more brandy; it appeared he had gotten used to it rather quickly!  
  
I smiled a little at his question. "'One-Eye' - what else?" It was a rather dull and boring name, in fact, but then, more remarkable things had happened to my companions, so their right to claim a nicely eccentric name was greater than mine.  
  
Tanglinna chuckled. "Yes, appropriate, I suppose." With a sudden smile, he raised the bottle. "To good friends. May they never be in short supply." It was hard to tell whether the fact that he took a particularly large swallow of the liquor then indicated that this toast was to be considered as most solemn, or simply that he was developing a liking for orcish brandy; his grin seemed to indicate the latter.  
  
"To good friends." I repeated and drank as well, contemplating this new friend and realizing that I would have liked to ask him at least as many questions as he had asked me. For the time being, I decided to limit myself to a very simple, unobtrusive one: "Do you like the brandy - even if it was made by orcs?"  
  
~*~*~*~*  
  
Did I 'like the brandy – even if it was made by orcs"? I had never in my life been asked such a ridiculous question – or thought to have been asked such a question, for who would think I would even drink anything brewed by orcs? So perhaps it was not a ridiculous question after all. I nodded and laughed, thinking that my answer was unexpected – at least to myself. I *did* like it...even if it was made by orcs. Orcs?? Hm.... I would not think on that for too long. How odd!  
  
"Very much so," I answered, grinning a bit at the odd image he had planted in my head of lady orcs – lady orcs?! Was there even such a thing?? – making brandy or how I supposed brandy might be made since I really did not know how it was produced. "I am quite amazed by it really. I think even Thranduil would be impressed with it. He sees himself as an expert in this field." I grinned again, thinking of Oropher's son, and wondering what he *would* make of this orcish brandy. It was indeed stronger even than Dorwinion, which meant I should watch how much of it I consumed on my rather empty stomach. I settled back against the tree, taking another small sip.  
  
I found that I was a bit surprised by how at ease I felt sitting here with Alagaith. I am usually a very private person, not one given to being open or candid. I did not make friends with just anyone. There were, in fact, very few people that I have ever considered truly close friends – friends that I could tell anything to, share any thought or feeling that I had without wondering what they would think of me. I usually guarded both my tongue and my thoughts in regard to private matters, holding everyone at arms' length, not sharing much of myself with them. I was the 'Master Archer' to nearly everyone and that was what and who I was and nothing more. My private life was just that – private. I had not discussed this aspect of myself with anyone in a very long time...not since Oropher had died on that ash-choked battlefield in the last Age. When Celair had died, and then Oropher so soon afterward, I had decided that I did not want anyone to be that close to me again; though I was friends with Thranduil, it was not the same type of intimate relationship that existed between his father and myself, nor that of Celair or even Malhesie, my sister. No one was allowed to be that close to my heart or who I truly was.  
  
Yet sitting here, feeling the chill breeze that spoke of the approaching winter, hearing it sigh in the tree tops, stars sparkling down through their bared branches, I felt oddly relaxed and a strange swell of kinship filled me. Perhaps it was because Alagaith had seen me at my worst – angry, afraid, desperate, ridiculous, struggling to maintain a fast shredding dignity in that most undignified situation with Gurshak. Or maybe it was just the relief I felt for being *out* of that situation and back in control...or maybe it was this orcish brandy. But whatever it was, and I hoped that it was the first reason, my grin widened.  
  
"Now, Oropher could drink his son under the table," I continued in a bemused manner that fills one when you are recalling pleasant memories. "Not that the occasion arose that often," I added, not wanting him to think ill of us, and our grand revelries. Who knew what those Noldor thought of us mere wild Wood-elves?  
  
But grand revelries they had been. There had been some glorious times before Dagorlad changed us all – wild merriment beneath the sparkling stars of Elbereth. Music skirling upward on the sparks of the bonfires - pipes, drums, voices blending in the strange, fey harmonies that were uniquely ours – the Wood-elves of Greenwood. Dancing, whether fast and frantic, a challenge and enjoyment, or slow and intimate that lead to even more intimate things in the arms of loved ones, clapping hands as the musicians improvised even more complicated melodies or creating ones as delicate and ephemeral as spider silk. Wine and elvish brandy – not orcish – had flowed freely, and our golden Sindar princes did enjoy this part of our festivities.  
  
I chuckled, recalling these happy, carefree, grand days fondly.  
  
"I remember a time, soon after Celair came to Greenwood," I began with a grin at his particular memory of two blurry eyed, golden haired idiots sitting across from one another, swaying rather precariously on their benches as they continued to down one glass of Dorwinion after another, waiting to see who would be the first to fall beneath the table in defeat. But as I spoke Celair's name, the desire to see her face became overwhelming. In my little house, across the river from the palace, I have a picture of her on the wall that always greets me when I return home, whether it is from a journey or merely returning from a day spent with younglings shooting arrows awry. Soon I would be home to look upon that picture of her, but....  
  
I gazed appraisingly at my companion, noting that he appeared as relaxed and happy as I was, a gentle, interested smile on his face as he regarded me. It was this smile, this sense of kinship between us that made me reach into my tunic and take out the small leather tube nestled safely there. I never did this. I did not share this picture with anyone, but I wanted Alagaith to see her, my magnificent Celair.  
  
I opened the tube, gently pulling forth the picture, carefully unfurling it, smiling at her, for her.  
  
This was merely a copy of the original, which was preserved, carefully pressed within the pages of one of her books from Gondolin that she had managed to save that fateful night when her city fell. The original picture was too ragged, torn, and old to carry with me, so I had painstakingly recreated it...more than once over the years.  
  
She had been my one love, my life. I smiled at her likeness; grateful for the measure of peace this small reminder of her brought me...my bright lady-wife, my beautiful Celair with her soft black curls, her infectious laughter that made her eyes shine like fallen stars.  
  
I held the picture out slowly, offering it to Alagaith. I hoped that he understood that I did not share this picture of my wife easily or unthinkingly. There were very few even in Gladaran Thamas that even remembered that the Master Archer had a wife in the past Age. I wanted him to know that this was a show of my regard and respect for him...my first true, tentative step toward friendship. But how could he know any of this?  
  
I smiled faintly, hoping that he would understand on some level.  
  
"This is Celair," I said. "My wife."  
  
He took the paper from my fingers, curiosity shining in his grey eye. I watched silently as he studied the drawing, then he looked up at me.  
  
"This is a very beautiful picture," he said quietly, "and it seems very lifelike."  
  
His countenance grew melancholy then, his features written over with a sorrow that I recognized instantly. He was thinking of his wife....  
  
Then his eye moved back to the paper, almost with a start, a sudden return to now and not some distant memory of his lost lady. It is always a jolt to return from reveries of them, whether happy or sad.  
  
"Your wife was not from here?" he asked, sounding a bit hesitant and uncertain, but from his most tactful approach that framed this question, I knew what he did not want to say. He probably feared my reaction if he were to be more blunt in its execution and say what he truly wanted to: "So, Mordil, you married a *Noldo*? How shocking!"  
  
I chuckled at the carefully schooled expression on his face.  
  
"No," I answered with just as much nonchalance as I could muster. "She is not from Greenwood. She and her father lived in Gondolin before its fall."  
  
When one dark brow winged upward, though his expression managed to stay nearly impassive but not quite, I smiled slowly, then laughed, giving up my own battle.  
  
"Yes, my dear Linlote." Odd how that nickname, once spat out in sheer derision suddenly had an endearing quality...rather like its owner. "She was Noldorin...as was my lady-mother. This is not something that I think on much," I admitted with just a tinge of chagrin. To be honest, I did not think on my Noldo blood at all. "But," I laughed, "I suppose I should not have called you a 'Noldo' with such contempt. I am a bit of a hypocrite, I fear. Not all Noldor are terrible...some are quite...tolerable."  
  
I smiled at him, thinking that he seemed to fit into the 'tolerable Noldo' category. He, in turn, stared at me with what looked suspiciously like amazement. Whether this was born of my admission to having a Noldo wife or because of my confession to having that same blood in my veins...or maybe it was my confession that I was rather hasty and judgmental at times, I do not know. But then he laughed.  
  
"Do not worry, Mordil," he began, eyeing me speculatively. "I was not very offended." He smiled a bit then.  
  
He was being much too kind to me. I am sure he was highly offended by my somewhat offensive behaviour earlier. I certainly would have been! He must have seen my disbelief at his words, for he grinned a bit, eye sparkling.  
  
"If it helps to assure you," he began, then paused, his grin widening just a bit, "my wife was Silvan." His grin widened again at my incredulous stare, then he took another sip of the brandy.  
  
It was indeed my turn to stare in amazement, but then the irony of this situation took hold and I laughed in delight.  
  
"It seems that Silvans have certain...weaknesses when it comes to love and marriage," I chortled. "Or maybe you Noldor do." I hesitated then, covering my uncertainty by taking a swig of the brandy. I was nearing my limit, I could tell, as a pleasant buzzing tickled at the edges of my mind. "Where...where did you meet your wife?" I asked, hoping that this would not be too painful a subject for him. If his son was a mere twelve years old then it had not been that long since his wife had died. I do not know how I would feel if someone were to ask me to speak of my wife...but then no one had in a very long time; I only hoped I had not crossed some line that would send him into pain-filled silence.  
  
But after a moment's silence he smiled, his eye growing soft with some pleasant memory.  
  
"Under a clothesline," he said, in a tender voice, another smile playing about his lips. "I tried to steal a shirt from it, and she was not too pleased."  
  
I stared at him, torn between thinking that he was quite incorrigible or how nice it was, seeing him looking so relaxed and contented with his memories moving blissfully through his mind's eye, not with the pain I had feared my query would have aroused.  
  
"Why does that not surprise me?" I laughed, the image of him attempting to steal a shirt, only to be confronted by a lovely Silvan lass. "It seems that more than a shirt was stolen that day," I remarked, smiling at him. "You must have been quite a charmer if you managed to get the lady to fall in love with you after trying to rob her." I settled against the tree trunk once more, taking yet another swallow of the brandy. It truly was quite good!  
  
"I did not realize I was anything close to a charmer," he laughed softly, shaking his head a bit, as if he still was amazed by her reaction to him. "*She* was lovely....She managed to make me regret that I had tried to steal from her before even as much as a word had been exchanged." He grinned and I smiled slightly. "What made her fall in love with me, I do not know....She usually had good taste, it must have failed her in that special matter."  
  
I laughed at this sentiment. I knew it only too well myself.  
  
"I admit I do not understand the workings of female minds in that 'special matter' either." No, females are a wondrous mystery; my wife had been more so than any others. But I fear my curiosity had been piqued. What sort of Silvan lady would fall in love with a Noldorin elf who had tried to take a shirt from her clothesline? "What did she look like, this lovely little Silvan of yours?" I asked as he handed Celair's picture back to me.  
  
I studied her face once more, smiling at her once again, before curling it back into a roll and replacing it carefully in the tube, which was tucked inside my tunic once more – against my heart.  
  
"Does your son resemble her or you?" I finished, my fingers brushing over the comforting lump at my left breast. I hoped he would not think my questions too forward, and it was with relief that I saw him turn toward me and smile; his eye filled with memories of his wife and his son.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*  
  
I had to smile at Tanglinna's questions. The brandy was starting to work, as it seemed! But perhaps my assumption that his curiosity only showed because the liquor loosened his tongue was not quite right.  
  
We had gone from open hostility to something very close to friendship in a single day, and the time we could spend together was running out quickly; questions that might have been asked and answered after weeks, months or years of knowing each other under other circumstances had to be pressed into short hours now.  
  
And, to my own surprise, I wanted to answer his questions and felt that my answers would be understood; he had readily shared his wife's portrait – and what a gem of a picture it was! – with me, and I felt that whatever I told him now would be safe with him.  
  
So when I spoke, it was not with much cautious reserve.  
  
"Alagant? He is clearly mine, I fear..." I began and winked. "But he has her hair, gentle curls of light brown..."  
  
These curls, tumbling over Belegweth's shoulders in a merry cascade, always somewhat messy, but endearingly so, were not even a bad starting point for a description; in their glorious untidiness, they had surrounded a pale, gentle face with eyes bright with wit and a sharp mind, with dark brows that I had seen raised in mild doubt very often, and with soft lips ever ready to part in a lovely, quite unique smile that mere words cannot capture.  
  
Reducing Belegweth to a mere few words was a difficult task, anyway, and although I had meant to be succinct, I found myself adding more and more details to the invisible picture I was trying to paint for Mordil, the most marginal things seeming important enough to be mentioned....  
  
I talked for a long time, how long, I do not remember, and finally realizing that I had gotten lost in memories that had to seem unimportant, even ridiculous, to anybody but me, I fell silent with a guilty expression. "Sorry... I did not mean to talk quite that much. It must be the brandy!" Hoping to hide my embarrassment a little, I took another sip.  
  
Tanglinna chuckled at this. "It is quite understandable," he replied, smiling and sounding as if he understood indeed. "I don't mind in the least, brandy or not. Wives do have a way of staying in touching your heart, every little thing they did, ever word that fell from their lips, the way the sun looks when it glistens in their hair...even when they are... no longer here."  
  
His smile wavered slightly, and he took another swallow of the all too tempting beverage.  
  
I hesitated a little, but deciding that he had asked fairly intimate questions himself and that he could not be too loathe to talk about his lost wife if he had shown me her picture, I said: "Tell me about your wife... What was she like?"  
  
At first, I feared that I had gone too far now; Tanglinna only gazed bleakly ahead of him. But then, before the silence could become awkward, a slow smile spread over his face and he began to speak, describing the wife he had lost after entirely too short a time with great fondness, his words weaving a tapestry of memories.  
  
Falling silent again after some time, he smiled slightly at me. "You see?" he asked quietly and with a hint of sadness. "One cannot help but speak of them in such a manner." His smile then vanished while the pain he so clearly felt was lingering, so very visible in his eyes, and I suspected that, when he raised the bottle to his lips again, it was mainly to chase his dark thoughts and his sorrow.  
  
Studying him in silence, I could not help wondering how and under which circumstances he had lost his wife if thinking of her still hurt him that much.  
  
The death of a loved one always brings different kinds of grief. The pain caused by the mere loss may be agonizing in itself, but as time passes, you learn to cope with it more or less; but there is another kind of sorrow, the grief, perhaps even horror, brought about by the manner in which the one you lost died, and if you have reason to assume that someone suffered greatly or died believing or knowing something that caused them terrible pain, the wound will never heal.  
  
I knew this quite well, for while I hoped that Belegweth had at least known or felt in her last moments that her son was well and would live, I had feared for most of my life that my father had died believing that I had abandoned him to his fate, and I had only learnt recently that it had not been like that. Admittedly, I might have come to that conclusion earlier if I had been aware that he had not died at all.  
  
I dared not ask Tanglinna about his wife's death; instead, I only remarked quietly: "You miss her greatly."  
  
"Too much." The answer was swift in coming, honest and unguarded, and, perhaps realizing what he had said, Tanglinna quickly shook his head, forcing a smile. "This brandy is indeed rather strong," he said, but he did not sound quite convinced or even fully serious, and as if he had decided that pretending nothing was wrong would not do now that he had allowed so much of what he felt to show, he hesitantly added: "It...it has been a long time since I spoke to anyone about her...." He shook his head yet again. "It...it...I should be over this. I am sorry."  
  
He turned away to stare out into to quiet darkness, and for a moment, we were both very silent. I had been correct when I had surmised earlier that he was not used to sharing his grief with others, but it saddened me to learn that he felt bound to apologize for what had transpired. Did he really believe that it was best to lock his sorrow away inside, leaving it to fester?  
  
Feeling a surge of pity, I softly placed a hand on his arm, ready to withdraw it again if he should consider this an inappropriate gesture. "Do not apologize... How should you be over it? Such a wound never heals... not completely."  
  
He turned to gaze at me, his eyes flicking to my hand on his arm, but he did not move to push it away. "No, I suppose that it will never heal...." he confessed. "How could it? I feel as though half myself has been ripped from me, leaving me scarred and hurting more than I ever though was possible." As if he had said too much and was not pleased with himself for having done so, he frowned, and there was another moment of silence.  
  
"What is past is past," he muttered at last. "And we must live with it as best we can." True as this was, I doubted whether he lived very well with what had happened in his life. But as if he wished to show that he was grateful for the small measure of comfort I had tried to offer, he gently placed his hand over mine for a moment with a slight smile before he looked away again, taking another swallow of brandy.  
  
Taking another sip as well, I remarked: "But even though it is past, we cannot pretend it never happened and that it does not hurt at all."  
  
"No", Tanglinna agreed. "It is impossible to pretend. There are times when...." He stopped himself, shaking his head once more, apparently deciding that getting lost in these depressing thoughts would do us no good. "You are fortunate to have a son to remind you of your wife," he began. "He must be a great comfort to you." These words were accompanied by a warm smile.  
  
I smiled back, thinking that Mordil read me quite well. "He is indeed.... He has been from the beginning." Repaying truthfulness with truthfulness, I chose to be frank: "If he had not been there, and lived.... I do not know. Perhaps I would have gone mad or would have done something foolish...." Smiling wryly, I added: "But he did not allow that - he was wiser than his father even then."  
  
Although this assessment was less ironic than it could have seemed, it made Tanglinna smile. "I am very glad that he was there to stop you from doing anything foolish or to keep you from madness." he replied, looking down and doubtlessly remembering the difficult time immediately after his own loss. "I suppose the Valar know what they are doing...." he continued. "Something or someone is always there, leading us down another pathway...giving us reason to live...though it is hard at times...."  
  
Again, we sat in silence for a time, and Tanglinna took another generous swallow. The content of the bottle he was holding was vanishing quite rapidly, in fact....Perhaps I should have pointed out to him a bit more clearly that this was strong orcish brandy, not some light wine.... Now, however, it was too late anyway, and at least, Tanglinna still seemed capable of conducting a conversation.  
  
"Your son must be a wise fellow indeed and he is an excellent carver already", he said with a smile.  
  
I was proud indeed of Alagant's skills in that respect, and it made me quite happy that Tanglinna was so impressed by them. "He is...." I confirmed, and, gazing up at the stars that were visible between the dark trees, I went on: "Perhaps that will be useful for him one day... I hope so, at least... It would be quite sad if he... if he...."  
  
Realizing where I was going, I chose not to say more. Speaking of sorrows and joys of past days was fine, but this was dangerous territory; mentioning present worries would only cause Tanglinna to remember what I was, and I did not want this short, yet precious friendship to be overshadowed by my less than honourable profession.  
  
To be perfectly honest, I did not even want to remember what I was myself just now; I had pushed One-Eye the thief into a corner of my mind some time during our conversation, and I did not want him to resurface before I had parted from Tanglinna.  
  
Alas, my dear Mordil knew how to finish the sentence I had broken of. "If he were to live the life you do?" he quietly asked, turning to look at me.  
  
Defeated, I nodded, dreading what was to come now; he would be very right if he told me that subjecting Alagant to the life he was forced to lead was wrong of me.  
  
~*~*~*~*  
  
It seemed that my sudden insight into the fears that Alagaith harbored would have been better left untouched, yet my curiosity forced me ask, "Why do you continue in this life if it is not to your liking? Is there some reason why you live this way? How long has it been?"  
  
It appeared to me that he had lived this desperate sort of life for a long time, long enough for stealing to be as natural as breathing, else why would he have taken this most excellent brandy with what seemed to be no thought at all? As he turned his head away from me, I could see that his memories were not pleasant ones. I thought again, that perhaps I had been too inquisitive, digging into things better left buried in the past. But he spoke, softly, almost reluctantly.  
  
"It has been...a long time...some years before the Fall of Nargothrond. I...well, I suppose you would not believe me, and it is a long story anyway. Suffice it to say that I had to leave Nargothrond, and somehow ended up...like this."  
  
He laughed then; a low bitter noise and I felt my heart go out to him.  
  
"Back then," he continued, his words still colored by his bitterness, "I thought it would end at some point, pass like a nightmare, but then...."  
  
His voice died away as he lifted his right arm, his eye dark as he stared at the cam tehta mark marring his wrist.  
  
"Then I did not have a choice anymore," he finished abruptly, not looking at me, but staring quite intently at the night-darkened grass by his feet. I could see him clasp his wrist in his left hand, rubbing at it as though he wished it would vanish beneath such ministrations.  
  
I could have told him that scars did not vanish no matter how much you wished them away or tried to atone for what they represented; neither did the feelings that such marks gave you vanish away into time, forgotten and put behind you...no, they remained...a constant reminder of something you wished had not happened – either of a misdeed, a battle, or even a failure....  
  
I studied him for a moment, trying not to feel a pity that I knew he would not appreciate, for though it was born of sympathy and understanding, it was still pity. I knew that he must be feeling defeated, lost, without hope. I reached out and gently extricated his abused wrist, running my thumb over the black mark that had brought him to this point of despair.  
  
"Is this why you have no choice any more?" I asked quietly, studying the cam-tehta mark; the elegant twining Elvish letters were beautiful, yet so very ugly. "This mark?"  
  
He did not look at me for a moment, no doubt feeling embarrassed by my speaking of this. Then he did turn to me, his eye bleak, and he nodded.  
  
"There was a time when I tried to...change," he began in a most hesitant voice, and I knew that he had probably not discussed this with anyone in a very long time.  
  
Tried.... Yes, sometimes the things we want most are the most difficult to obtain...or to keep.  
  
"It did not work...they would not believe me – that I was sincere."  
  
His dark brows winged down, his grey eye filling with what looked to be annoyance at himself, probably for being so candid with me. This was undoubtedly painful for him. Discussing ones personal failures was never an easy thing; one that I did not indulge in often...I could not and would not. Yet he trusted me enough at this point to be honest that his attempt to become honest again had not worked exactly as it should have.  
  
"'They' who?" I queried, wondering whom else he had trusted with this dream of his, this wish, this great desire. I released his wrist and studying him carefully. Why hadn't 'they' given him a chance to become what he wanted to be? It was a noble goal, one that should have been encouraged and nurtured. And yet...did we not all doubt those that we saw as something less than ourselves? Those less fortunate in their life circumstances were often disbelieved and looked down on.  
  
"My parents-in-law," he said with a bitter smile that twisted his lips. "But then, no one had reason to believe a branded thief...I understand that."  
  
He may have understood this, just as I did, but he should not have accept it!  
  
Parents-in-law....  
  
I leaned back against the night-cooled tree trunk thinking that of all the people he could have started with – people he wanted to trust him, help him forge a new life from the ashes of what his life was – he would choose his wife's or perhaps it had been future wife's parents. That explained his entire problem!  
  
I felt a rather unseemly giggle rising in my throat and before I could stop it, it emerged sounding utterly out of place in this most solemn conversation. I hastily clapped my hand over mouth, thinking that for all my good intentions to not imbibe too much of this orcish stuff, I had somehow already managed to do just that! Insidious orcs! But did it matter? There was nothing I could do about it now.  
  
"I think," I began with what I feared was a ridiculously silly grin, "perhaps it is because they *were* your parents-in-law that they did not believe you. It has been my vast experience," and here I giggled again, sounding like some foolish youngling, "that parents-in-laws were made for only one reason – to make one feel highly unworthy of their daughters, and thus torment them in any way they could."  
  
This seemed only too true – at least to my 'vast' experience, which was comprised of Riwmegor and only Riwmegor...not so very vast an experience after all. I turned to grin at him, but then I smiled kindly, trying to let him know that I did, in fact, understand.  
  
"Perhaps you merely tried with the wrong people," I finished, lifting the bottle to my lips once more, but I did manage to pull it away before I tasted any more of that stuff, feeling rather chagrined by the brandy- induced strangeness in my head.  
  
Alagaith laughed slightly at my mention of what parent's-in-law had been created for, but then his expression became one of puzzlement, and he shook his head.  
  
"No.... It is simply that I am unlucky.... Nobody ever believes me when I tell the truth!"  
  
As if he regretted this mild outburst, he took a rather large swallow of his brandy.  
  
"That is how it started," he said quietly, his expression filled with brooding.  
  
"How it started?" I repeated. "By no one believing you or ill luck? I fear ill luck comes to most of us...." Yes, it did. Ill luck was just a part of life, not always something we brought upon ourselves...not always. "So it must be that no one believed you...." My voice trailed off and I frowned, not happy at all that my mind was so fogged and fuzzy. "Did your wife believe you when you said you wished to become honest?" I asked, forcing myself to concentrate. "Sometimes, one is all it takes to encourage us to rise above our circumstances... it is a beginning anyway."  
  
I frowned then. Beginnings are very hard. They can be terrifying, making you feel overly vulnerable.  
  
"You said that we cannot pretend that things that are painful did not happen, and yet we must continue the best we can, bearing the pain – often in silence and alone. But if we have someone who does believe in us...someone who *believes* us...."  
  
I shook my head, wishing again that I had not drunk so much or that it had not affected me so quickly – truly, it had not seemed like so very much! – I wanted him to realize that what he wanted – to become honest, to leave the 'skulking cutpurse' behind – should not be abandoned because two people, who probably did not want to believe in him in the first place, had not been willing to support him in his decision.  
  
"Perhaps things can change," I continued, gazing earnestly at him. "We can rise above our situations and be better...be...ourselves...."  
  
I paused then, fearing I was sounding ridiculous or, at the very least, unclear. How very hard it is to truly be ourselves! We all wear the appropriate masks to suit the moment we are in, the people we are with. We did not wish to upset people by being truthful, so we nodded and smiled, hiding what we truly felt, not wanting one to look askance at you...or - Valar forbid – challenge what they knew or thought they knew about certain beliefs or cherished ideas. How hard it is indeed! And first impressions are very lasting! Yet we needed to see beyond this if we were to truly know the truth of something, did we not? Or to see the real someone that lay hidden behind the outer shell? I sighed slightly in exasperation at my inability to speak what I was feeling, knowing that I would never be able to articulate this so it was...articulate....  
  
Alagaith sat in silence for a moment, probably thinking his companion was merely a drunken idiot of a Wood-elf who could not take a few swallows of brandy without succumbing to them.  
  
"Yes, perhaps," he said at last, his voice tight and bitter with sarcasm...yes, I was a drunken Wood-elf idiot.... "It is a nice dream anyway....A very nice dream." He raised his bottle in mock salute and took another sip.  
  
I scowled then, staring at the bottle in my own hand. I had not made myself clear at all! Ridiculous brandy! I would have to try again, taking a risk that he might think even worse of me for my overly active tongue, but this was too important to abandon merely because I sounded slightly befuddled.  
  
"Dream?" I asked, sounding just a bit harsh, the well practiced 'Master Archer' coming to the fore. "So you think that bettering yourself is just a dream? That is rather a pessimistic attitude. Why do you think we moved here to Greenwood? A dream. A dream that life could be better - less...complicated than what we had before. A dream. A dream that we realized when we came here, expecting to be turned away or ignored by the inhabitants of this wood."  
  
We had not been certain of our reception when we few had finally crossed the river, leaving behind all that was familiar and comfortable to chase after a chance at a new, better life. We had been scared, though we all did our best to hide it, even deny it; our brave masks firmly in place. There was so much we risked by this bold move to the east, breaking away from the long-forged ties with those still in the west of Arda. And when the Greenwood Silvans had met us at the southern edge of their great forest, seeming feral and fierce to our 'civilized' eyes, they greeted us....  
  
"They took us in, welcomed us, believed that we - and they! - could live out Oropher's grand dream. Our life is a testament to a 'nice dream' that was realized. It was not easy, do not misunderstand me; we had many hard times and many sorrows...many things happened that were not part of what we dreamed for this land, or for ourselves. Yet we made our dream come true, as true as it could be...."  
  
I paused - thinking that I sounded too much like Brethil Bronaduion with that tumbled, yet passionate, flood of words. I meant every one of them, wanting him to realize that if one were determined enough and were willing to venture into the unknown, a dream could be achieved. And, as I had told him, it was not always easy, things did not always go the way we wanted or thought they should. But if we had never decided to travel to Greenwood, we would have lived out our lives wondering what life *might* have been – the dream that was ignored and regretted.  
  
Oropher had been filled with his dream of a life away from the Noldor, away from the Dwarves, away from everything that we had come to despise as the destroyers of our former lives. We had dared to move away from the past, to start life over; and our life here had been good – was good still – having brought us unlooked for dreams of happiness and content as well as our share of sorrows and failures.  
  
Alagaith said nothing for a moment, merely sat quite still, studying the stars. When at last he did speak, it was in hushed tones.  
  
"There are always hard times and sorrows...As long as there is hope, or something like hope, that is not too bad." His gaze dropped then to the cam-tehta mark, his face filling with melancholy. "But...you had not done anything wrong.... Those living here before you could welcome you."  
  
"What makes you think I have never done anything wrong" He certainly could not think that everyone but himself were totally innocent! "I may have never stolen from anyone and been caught at it...." I hesitated then, frowning, then my eyes widened with sudden guilt...guilt that I would not necessarily have felt were I with anyone but him. "Um...well, stealing from...orcs does not count, does it?" I stammered, knowing that it did count... now as it never had before when sitting with this elf whose best friend was an orc. "We were not caught, but...." I shook my head, not wishing to incriminate myself further, and he did not care to hear about that old escapade when I was much younger, and following Oropher's lead. "Do you wish to be welcomed?" I began again. "You seem to have a rather pessimistic and bitter outlook on your fellows. Perhaps not all of us are so hardened that we cannot look beyond the surface to see what lies beneath it. The things that are worth the most to have, cost us the greatest....I think you are afraid to try!" I declared, eyeing him in a challenging manner, hoping that he would forget my own hasty judgments about him in the not so distant past. "What did Greenwood's inhabitants see in us? Kinslayers we were...after Doriath. We brought with us a past that was not untroubled, yet they managed to see beyond our bloodstained hands, our dark history. Perhaps someone would do the same for you some day...but you will not know until you try."  
  
~*~*~*~*~*  
  
Some people will fall silent under the influence of orcish brandy, to brood and sit lost in their own thoughts; others will grow very talkative, and it seemed Tanglinna belonged to the latter group. Perhaps I should have dismissed what he said as the foolish babbling of a drunken archer, but to my own astonishment, I found that I wanted to listen.  
  
There was a sincerity about his words that was oddly touching, not only when he spoke about his own experience, but also when he urged me to try again and not to think that I was the only one who had ever done wrong – and this was what made me think.  
  
In all those years ever since my quick descent into this sort of life had begun, no one had ever offered me hope or spoken so passionately to prevent me from continuing on a way that would lead nowhere at best, but to more despair and suffering in the worst case.  
  
No one who was not what I was had ever even cared, not counting Belegweth, whose valiant efforts had been brought to nothing by her parents', most notably her mother's, intervention. I still believed, and believe to this day, that it had been wise of us to leave the small settlement my wife had come from; if we had insisted on staying and managed to stay indeed, unlikely as it was that all those most decent and respectable elves would have refrained from simply throwing me out of their dwelling by force, the few years we had been able to spend together would have been poisoned by contempt and distrust.  
  
But Belegweth had loved me, and this love had undoubtedly coloured her judgement a little; no one else had ever believed that I could be quite serious about wishing to change my life, and no one seemed to have thought that I was even worth being encouraged to do so. A thief and robber of the dead was nothing but that, a creature almost as bad as a kinslayer, and even when I had found some pity and mercy in the past, it had never been more than just that, eyes kindly turned away when I had been found stealing something of limited value, a chance to escape arrest offered with a wink, a punishment lessened.  
  
There had never been anything that close to an invitation, and no kind thought that went past the immediate future. I had underestimated Tanglinna quite a bit; his concern for me was not merely superficial. As drunk and befuddled as he may have been, he wished to understand, and he understood, too well, perhaps....  
  
I, for my part, knew myself well enough to be certain that, if we pursued this subject any longer, I would give in to dangerous thoughts, and used to making unpleasant decisions swiftly, I might have said and done things that I would have regretted, especially if it had turned out later that Tanglinna, in his happy haze, had been sincere as far as general feelings and opinions were concerned, but had not thought about the possible implications of his exact words.  
  
Therefore, I only took another sip of brandy and replied: "You obviously do not know what you are saying... Stop it, or you might regret it."  
  
I wished a line of thought could have been broken off as easily as a dangerous exchange of words, but even while I searched for a fitting question to change the topic, rather too many thoughts beginning with 'what if' or 'perhaps' were racing in my head.  
  
"You are from Doriath?" I finally enquired.  
  
Fortunately, Tanglinna accepted the new direction of the conversation and nodded. "Yes...well, my family moved there when I was but a mere youngling...after...." He stopped himself, either because this was a part of his past that he did not want to revisit or merely in order to stop himself from breaking into a ramble of childhood memories. Suddenly, he grinned. "Surely, you are not going to say you were in Doriath?"  
  
I shook my head. I had never ventured there indeed, and this was not the time to tell Tanglinna that I had almost ended up there at one point, although it was most amusing to imagine that, if one lady had made a different decision in a wintry forest long ago, I might have met Tanglinna much earlier, in Doriath.... Perhaps we could have become real friends in that case, and perhaps I would have been living in Greenwood later... Vain thoughts!  
  
"Do not worry.... "I answered. "We dared not go near there back then, even though the loot to be found there might have been promising."  
  
Tanglinna's brows shot up. "'Loot'?" he repeated. "It seems that the 'treasure' in Doriath is what brought about its fall. Not all treasure is of the good kind, you know. Some things are more important than mere objects, regardless of how pretty and alluring. Loot!"  
  
He laughed, apparently amused by what I had said, but then, his face grew serious again, and he took a swallow. "Perhaps it is best you were not there. It was not a pleasant time....Elu Thingol died not long after we arrived in his grand hall and his wife left us nearly defenceless...."  
  
"I am sure it was not a pleasant time for you", I answered, and for the first time in my life, I felt vaguely grateful that I had already been an outlaw when Nargothrond had fallen; to witness the ruin of one's home was probably much worse than merely learning about it.  
  
I contemplated Tanglinna with pity. "If you were there when Doriath fell, it must have been more terrible than words can describe..." It had probably been more terrible than even thoughts could grasp; I knew how silent and pale Well-Armed would still become now, after so many years, when the Sack of Nargothrond was mentioned. "I only came upon the aftermath of the Teiglin massacre, and that was bad enough."  
  
Tanglinna nodded slowly, and without knowing the details of what he remembered, I could imagine what he saw before his inner eye now; and unlike me, he had probably seen atrocious things done instead of only staring at familiar faces frozen in death, numbing shock giving way to sorrow but slowly, the horror seeming too great to grasp.  
  
"History has not been kind to any of us, it seems." he remarked. "Yet..." – and here, a smile returned to his face – "We made the best of what we were left with...though it was some time before things seemed to be 'normal' again...not till we came here; not until our lives were made over completely by what we forged here in our green fastness." His smile grew very fond then, and, love colouring his voice, he continued: "It is the most wonderful place I have ever been in...my one true home...."  
  
I returned his smile, thinking that it was quite endearing to hear him talk about his forest and his home with such fondness. "Tell me about your home... Where do you live?"  
  
It had been a spontaneous question, and a foolish one; asking about his home made me feel quite sharply that I had none, not any more, and I my attempt to chase unbidden memories was futile. Memories swept over me like a wave apt to drown me, memories of home, my father humming to himself while he was busy making an overstuffed little kitchen even more untidy, my favourite corner with a bench made comfortable by a whole pile of cushions, some of them old and embroidered by my mother's hands, some new, made and decorated by me, long evenings spent sitting by the fire, and even memories of how it had felt to be out in Talath Dirnen, silently cursing the pouring rain and secretly exchanging a look and a swift wry smile with my captain, knowing very well that he dreamt of already being back in his beloved kitchen, although he would never have admitted that, not even in private....  
  
It was a good thing that Tanglinna started to speak then with a happy smile. "I live not very far from here. I have my own little house just across the river from the palace. It is in the trees, so it is always green and the breeze that flows through it scented with the river's crisp water. It is not fancy, I am not like some elves who," - he grinned, making me suspect that 'some elves' were not quite as anonymous as they sounded – "like the more sparkling aspects of life. I enjoy it there. It is peaceful...if a bit lonely at times." He shrugged as if he wished to make this admission seem pretty unimportant.  
  
Nevertheless, I had noticed it and had my own thoughts on how important it was, but I only smiled. "It sounds like a very good sort of home.... You are fortunate." Even while I was speaking, I wondered how true this really was; he had a good home, yes, but no one to share it with.  
  
Tanglinna shrugged again, but he looked quite content. "It is a good life here in Greenwood...Hmph! Mirkwood! Ha!" He laughed slightly. "I believe anyone could be happy here...if they truly wished to be." I was glad he gazed up at the stars then, and not at my face; what he could have read there might have disturbed him, and I was quick to force an impassive expression when he turned to look at me again. "I suppose you do not have a home in any one place...."  
  
I shook my head, but grinned a bit then at a sad, but somewhat ironic thought; he had a place to call home indeed, a place I lacked, but I did have a family. "Home is where Alagant is... and the rest of the family... in a way. But having a place to call home would be good indeed. I suppose I shall have to try."  
  
I am not sure if he knew how very serious I was; in any case, he smiled and replied: "I think you might like living in one place for more than a short period of time. Your own little house.... You are most fortunate that your heart has a place to call home though...in your son and your family." His smile grew wistful, and I felt sorry for him.  
  
He was right that living in one place, having a house, would have been pleasant, but without Alagant capering about in it, ready to set new standards of untidiness, and my father instantly starting to think about the proper place for a herb garden and about the amount of cooking spoons, pots and pans we would need to live like civilized people, I would not have enjoyed even a house as lovely as the one Tanglinna had described.  
  
"You do not have a family?" I asked, but it was not really a question.  
  
Tanglinna shook his head. "No. They are all dead...have been for some time now." There was such grief in his voice that it was painful even to listen to him, and doubtlessly more painful for him to speak. "I had a dream as well," he continued softly, "much more impossible than your own. I think you are very fortunate that all you need is a house for your family. I am sure that could be arranged some day...."  
  
I had to smile that he assumed that such a thing 'could be arranged' so easily; he was clearly drunk, but telling him this would not have been very kind. "Maybe." I only replied. "What kind of dream did you have?"  
  
I studied his face in the starlight, but he did not look at me; his eyes were watching the light of the moon and the stars on the grass before him. "I nearly had my dream come true...." he began in a low voice, sounding very vulnerable. "It was so close." He held up two fingers, a mere inch apart. "We were going to have a son, you see. Cubell....my little strong bow. We were so happy...too happy...." Here, he hesitated, probably dreading to utter what was to come now even more than I dreaded to hear it. "They were killed...on my conception day...just before....just before I could get there." Overwhelmed by pain, he closed his eyes and paused; when he spoke again, his voice was tightly controlled: "Some dreams are impossible, it seems." Drawing up his knees, he placed his forehead on them like an elfling finding some measure of comfort in closing the cruel world out. I tried to think of something, anything, to say or do, but I knew that his was a sorrow that could never be cured or lessened. Yet, when he slowly looked up at me again, I felt my inability to help like a failure. "Forgive me," he said. "I did not mean to...Your dream is not impossible. You should try to achieve it, if you truly want it."  
  
How could he think of my petty worries, my foolish little dream, just now? He told me he had lost his unborn child to violent death and expected me to have nothing but my lack of a roof to sleep under in mind after this? Perhaps it was only an act of self-protection, of keeping greater grief at bay by speaking of different things, or fear that what he had said had undone the success of his efforts to convince me that there was still hope... I did not care. While I had suspected that his life had not been happy, I had never feared that so great a loss, and brought about in a terrible manner, with the added irony of happening on a day that should have been one of joy and merriment, was behind his grief.  
  
There was nothing to say, and little to do; I only put an arm around Tanglinna's shoulders in a gesture of comfort, knowing that this would hardly lessen the pain he felt, but hoping he would see that I understood.  
  
For a moment, he just stared at me, brows furrowed, but then, he smiled, gratefully so, if I was not mistaken. "You do not ever know how much time you will be given with your family...you must never waste a single moment of that time for it can be gone in a heartbeat." His smile turned rueful then. "We can only do the best that we can for them while they are here...make their lives wonderful, make lovely memories of them...for them....that is all we can do at times...perhaps that is enough."  
  
Looking away, he chuckled slightly, obviously making an effort to cut the painful moment short. "What a tale you will have to tell them when you return to them! Will *they* believe you?" He laughed, and had I not been too affected by what he had told me before, I might have joined him in his sudden mirth; the tale of our adventure was an unusual and fantastic one indeed, and even those close to us would have difficulty to believe that we had not embellished the story a little.  
  
"Hug your son for me when you see him." Tanglinna added with a smile, and I smiled back, feeling more than ever that I had been gone for far too long a time, and grateful that I would be able to return now and whole, not only in a few months and crippled.   
"Alagant will believe me, of course," I answered. "If ada says it was like that, then it was so." Alas, Alagant was quite the only being in Arda who trusted me that unconditionally! With a grin, I added: "But my father will probably assume that I had entirely too much brandy... Which might be true."  
  
I should have stopped here, allowing the conversation to take a more harmless turn; but Tanglinna's obvious sorrow still troubled me so that I felt I had to say something, even if it was an awkward thing to say and would not be received kindly. "But... listen now. Your dream..." I hesitated slightly; Tanglinna would probably only wish to throttle me if I kept poking at that unhealed wound now. "Do not call it 'impossible' - there is hope... always."  
  
I did mean every word of this, for while I did not have great trust in the kindness of my fellow elves and the possibility of finding forgiveness, the Valar and Eru Himself had chosen to be merciful with me at times. I had been certain that my father was dead and gone, yet I had found him again after long years; I had seen Half-Dead survive wounds that could easily have been deadly under the limited care Strongsword had been able to offer. If such miracles did happen, who said that there would be no such luck for Tanglinna? Admittedly, I did not know how his dead wife and son could be brought back, but there was no certainty that it would never happen.  
  
Tanglinna did not indulge in such hopes, and he did not want to hear about them.  
  
"Not in this world...."he answered, shaking his head as if to rid it of all melancholy thoughts. "You *have* had too much brandy...as have I!"  
  
Winking, he took another swallow and continued: "Do you know, I have never thanked you for saving my life? I have been utterly remiss..."  
  
Clearing his throat, he set the bottle aside and studied me so seriously that it looked almost comical in his present state; yet his words were heartfelt. "I do thank you for saving me down there. It was very noble of you to risk yourself for me, when I am sure I did not deserve such kindness and generosity. And never let me hear anyone say that you are not good with a sword...or scimitar or they will be very sorry to have done so." And, with a smile, he held out his hand.  
  
~*~*~*~*  
  
"Do not call it impossible – there is hope...always."  
  
Clearly, he did not know what he was speaking of. Hope exists only if things are possible, but some things are not.  
  
I could have told him that a mere moment before, *he* had been the despairing one, seeing no hope for a changed life – a new start – something that was possible and therefore hope could exist – should exist. His dream could be realized if he persevered and was willing to work for it. Mine on the other hand had died the day Celair and Cubell had been killed. There was no hope...it was over. My dream could not be realized on Arda; I had lost my only chance at it. I would not waste hope on what was never meant to be.  
  
But I did not want to think on this anymore. Enough moments of my life had been spent on this meaningless, too painful contemplation of what might have been, what should have been - but was not. Therefore, I was grateful when I felt him grasp my outstretched hand, a firm grip - warrior's grip. I could see his eye shining with amusement or some other emotion I could not fathom. I did not know.  
  
"Now, do not get that dramatic and formal," he declared wryly. "*I* wanted to get out of there as well. And then," a smile flitted over his lips, "It was the least I could do.... You were very kind." He hesitated before saying, "Thank you."  
  
I suppose I should have been gracious and smiled, tipping my head in acknowledgement, but I fear I snorted at his lovely, heartfelt words. Not at him, mind you, but at myself.  
  
"If you think my behaviour toward you has been kind, I do not want to know what sort of people you have been in contact with if you think this was kindly done. I was most rude to you, and you certainly did not have to stay and let me out of those chains when you could have escaped and freed yourself. In fact, "I studied him in an appraising manner, feeling pleased that my mind seemed to be functioning mostly as it should, "you thought that I was going to take you back to Gladaran Thamas for trial, and the smart course of action would have been to leave me. Now, who is being the 'kind' one?" I smiled warmly at him for indeed he had been the kind one to free me regardless of the cost to himself. "Thank you," I said, gripping his hand a moment more before releasing it and sitting back down.  
  
One of his brows rose at this pronouncement.  
  
"Leave you, down there? The smart course of action indeed," he said in retort, shaking his head, a look of disbelief on his face. But then he smiled. "And then, you *were* kind - you put this," he touched the somewhat ragged eye patch, "back where it belonged; and you restrained those younglings a little. That was more than I could expect."  
  
Now it was my turn to stare at him in disbelief as he leaned back against our shared tree, his gaze moving to the stars overhead – bright pin pricks in the fabric of the night.  
  
"I merely did what anyone would have done," I protested. "There was nothing special in that act. Even if you are a thief, you deserve to retain your dignity. What those younglings did was unforgivable. They will not be pleased when I return and reprimand them properly for their inexcusable behaviour."  
  
Oh, yes. Laebrui and Nimdir would not be happy when Master Archer Tanglinna decided to speak to them about their treatment of the prisoner and what should be done about it.  
  
I chuckled then, wondering if I would have time to speak with them before Thranduil decided to 'speak' with me about my behaviour and treatment of the prisoner.  
  
"Don't be too harsh with them," Alagaith said, interrupting my thoughts. "I have seen worse."  
  
I turned to look at him, thinking he must have had too many unpleasant times in his life. Those two young warriors had been very rude, stripping him of what little dignity he had left. He was not looking at me, but appeared lost in thought, then, slowly, he turned to me.  
  
"Speaking of reprimands.... Are you sure that you will not be in trouble?"  
  
He appeared rather worried by this thought, so I smiled at him in reassurance.  
  
"Any reprimand I receive will not be harsh. I am actually looking forward to it. It will be a rather nice...quiet interlude." Quiet indeed as I suspect that no one would be allowed to 'converse with the prisoner'...if Thranduil threw all his usual stipulations into the deal. "A time of rest and relaxation really. Do not worry about it," I finished. There was nothing to be worried about. I had survived stays in the dungeon before, the hardest one being the first one and that had been many, many years ago after an ill-fated trip to Imladris.  
  
I pictured a blank wall of stone somewhere in Gladaran Thamas' depths just begging for some... creative attention. The last few days – nay, months leading up to these last few days! – had certainly provided me with enough inspiration to fill all the days that I would have to spend there...or months...or however long I awaited the king's pleasure.  
  
I grinned at this thought, taking another swallow of brandy before I realized I had done it. I was supposed to *not* drink anymore!  
  
Alagaith's brow rose again at my very nonchalant comments and took another sip as well. He looked entirely unaffected by the orcish spirits! Well, I certainly was not. I grinned again.  
  
"Don't you think we could come up with a good story to explain...this?" he asked, his eye filled with sudden creative calculation.  
  
My brows rose in turn.  
  
"If you think I should try to make up a 'good story' then I will, but I warn you! Thranduil is not easily fooled...not by me anyway. You know my acting skills are a bit...questionable," I finished with a grin at this Oh-So- Astute observation of mine. Questionable indeed!  
  
Alagaith chuckled, no doubt agreeing with me wholeheartedly.  
  
"And I imagine, he is not as willing to believe you as Gurshak was?"  
  
"Hardly," I snorted. "He will suspect that something is not as I said it was. But, as I said earlier, perhaps I will tell him the truth. At least, I will not by lying though he may believe I am. It does make an excellent tale."  
  
Now that it was over! But I did not give this voice.  
  
We both grinned, feeling quite companionable...now that it was over.  
  
"If he really locks you up, will you need anything?" he asked. He truly was a bit of a worrier! "Food, a warm blanket? Orcish brandy?" he chuckled as he eyed his own bottle, which was nearly as empty as mine.  
  
Orcish brandy! That made me chuckle. What would Thranduil make of that if he were to find a bottle of brandy – Orcish no less! – in my cell!  
  
"Orcish brandy might be nice," I agreed with a grin as my king's somewhat enraged face – quite red, making his blue eyes stand out nicely – filled my imagination. "It would certainly keep me nice and warm in my cell...." Not to mention the heat of Thranduil's anger! I turned to look at Alagaith. "I hope you would not do this though," I cautioned seriously. "I would not want you to get caught...not after I am being so kind in letting you go!"  
  
I would like to see him again, under kinder circumstances, but I would not see him risk himself just to smuggle a bottle of orcish brandy into my cell.  
  
"Do not worry about me," I continued, wondering when I had spoken so very much in one night...I probably did not want to know. If this kept up, I might start singing silly songs and rhymes! "I have survived stays in my Great Good King's dungeons before. New paints might be nice though."  
  
Another -increasingly idiot, I feared - grin settled on my face. I would definitely be painting this picture: two elves sitting beneath the stars, orcish brandy at hand, and looking very happy and content. A very nice picture that would make.  
  
"New...paints?" Alagaith asked, looking a bit...puzzled by my words.  
  
"Yes, new paints," I reiterated. "I have not had any in a while....I paint, you know.... There are people in Dale that make wonderful colours," I continued in a slightly dreamy voice, recalling the pleasant times in that City-kingdom of Men when we would visit there to barter and trade with its merchants. Usually we dealt directly with Esgaroth as it was much closer and the centre of commerce here in our little eastern edge of the world, but on rare occasion we would travel directly to Dale...they had been very nice times.  
  
"Dale?" Alagaith breathed. "It must have been a while ago that you bought new colours...."  
  
I blinked at this.... Ah yes. The Dragon had destroyed both Dale and Esgaroth. But now that his menace had been destroyed perhaps they could be rebuilt. Yes, it would be a good time of rebuilding – not only of the towns but also a renewing of friendship.  
  
"Dale," I murmured. "Yes, lovely colours," I repeated softly. "Though I admit they never did manage to make a paint quite the shade of Celair's eyes."  
  
This had been my deepest regret in regards to my painting. Her eyes were never quite right, and lovely eyes they had been. I could remember a rather heated argument with one Dale man that sold me paints. No, I fear he had never quite gotten that colour right regardless of what he had said. He had never seen her, after all. How could he know that the colour had to be....  
  
"Just the right shade of blue," I murmured, recalling her beloved face, her gentle smile, and those glorious eyes. "Bright and rich like cornflowers, but with just a hint of silvery grey...."  
  
Valar...I missed her....  
  
"Dwarves," I continued hastily, after clearing my throat which had tightened inexplicably, "make nice colours as well...but...." I shrugged vaguely, not looking at him.  
  
"I think I would like to see your pictures one day," he said slowly, an odd tone in his voice.  
  
"Then you must come and see them!" I declared, leaping onto the harmless subject earnestly. It *would* be very nice if he could come and see them. "They are not very good, not compared to some, but I think I have a fair talent for this sort of thing....I did that picture of Celair that you saw....Carry it with me everywhere....Always...."  
  
The pain was still there, but instead of trying to fight it off, I recalled that day at Riwmegor's forge when she had been working at making the dagger I had drawn her holding. Her brow had been beaded with sweat, black curls tumbling over her white neck. She had looked up at me and smiled...oh, so sweetly. It was a wonderful memory, one that I cherished in my attempt to keep her alive ...at least in my heart. Having the pictures I had done of her helped. I do not know how I would have survived without them to remind me of her and our too short time together. Not everyone had even a picture though....  
  
I looked up at Alagaith then.  
  
"Would you allow me to...paint a picture of your wife...if you can come to see me?" I asked, hoping that he would not take offence at my bold suggestion. "You would have to tell me exactly what she looked like – the shape of her face, the right amount of curl in her hair...."  
  
I gazed hopefully at him, wanting to gift him with this – a remembrance of his love.  
  
He looked...stunned by my suggestion, probably thinking I was a ridiculous drunken Silvan to suggest such a thing; but I had been quite sincere. Slowly he smiled, accepting the idea, I hoped. He had done so much for me already – rescuing me when it would have been easier to leave me, thinking not of himself but gallantly of someone else.  
  
"I would be most grateful if you would do that," he said at last. "And if you did that picture of your wife, your pictures are good...very good in fact."  
  
He looked quite...impressed? I flushed happily at his compliment.  
  
"Thank you," I said, feeling very like the peacock he had named me. "But I really would like to do a picture of your wife...it is the least I can do for you after everything you have done for me."  
  
My brows furrowed then as I studied this Noldo, whom I no longer thought of as the 'skulking cutpurse' that "Linlote" though I feared that nickname would not leave my mind or my mouth as it should. He had been unutterably generous to me.  
  
"I do not think I could ever properly thank you for saving me from Gurshak's clutches," I began, feeling rather overwhelmed suddenly. It was the brandy's fault...of this, I am certain. "To do that for a stranger" – a rude stranger! – "is kind and generous indeed, but to do it for someone who was intolerably rude" – yes, rude! – "to you...." Words failed me then, and I flung my arms about him. "Thank you! I will never forget this!"  
  
If I had been sober, I could not have been more sincere than I was at that moment, though I would have been less demonstrative. I most assuredly caught him off guard by this most unseemly behaviour of mine, but he patted me awkwardly on the back, speaking quietly to me as to a strange and unusual animal that might end up biting him if not soothed calmly and quickly.  
  
"Now, now...." Dealing with drunken Silvans...I wonder if he had ever done that before. "I could hardly leave so noble and kind an elf in the clutches of those goblins, could I?"  
  
"You could easily have done just that," I said, sitting back and staring at him, a bit bleary eyed. "All too easily."  
  
I was vaguely aware that I was glad that no one else was near enough to witness my rather sorry state. I did not care to think how I would feel in the morning, thought the thought "you will greatly regret this tomorrow...your head will be splitting!" flickered in the back of my mind and died away, nearly unmarked. That was hours away, after all.  
  
"If ever there is anything I can ever do for you, please do not hesitate to let me know," I told him earnestly, though I felt like I was swaying just a bit...or the trees around us were.  
  
He shook his head at this sentiment.  
  
"You have already freed me...saved my hand...." He lifted his hand, contemplating it for a moment, and I found myself wondering how I would have felt if my hand had been at stake. "And...you have said a lot of interesting things. We are quits," he finished, looking resolute.  
  
'Quits'. I did not think so, and if I had not been quite so Not Myself, I would have told him just what I did think, but instead I said, "I will not argue with you now, for I fear your orcish brandy has addled my wits just a bit...but if you ever care to argue with me about it, and I can argue rather well," I continued with a silly grin, "when I chose to, you know where you can find me...singing in the dungeons."  
  
I laughed at this remark. It had been sometime since I had sung in the dungeons. My sentence had been extended, not to mention that a bucket of very cold water had been thrown on me when I failed to notice that I had an audience...not a very appreciative one at that. Ah well. Thranduil perhaps had every right to be upset with me then...the song had been ... perhaps...questionable.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*  
  
I had to laugh at Tanglinna's words. "Singing in the dungeons?"  
  
It was amusing indeed to imagine my companion 'singing in the dungeons', or at least it seemed amusing under the influence of the brandy, for if I had thought a bit more about it, I would not have chuckled at the thought of Tanglinna being imprisoned... Well, only the slightest bit, perhaps – there was some irony in the fact that not the skulking cutpurse, but the valiant and honourable warrior should end up in the dungeons of Mirkwood, and for quite a serious offence, at that. But he had committed his crime because of me, and for me – there was truly no reason to consider this a ridiculous situation.  
  
"Then I will just follow your voice." I promised, and from this moment on, I was resolved indeed to venture into the wood-elf-king's dungeons indeed.  
  
Tanglinna was probably somewhat too. . . happy to realize that I was very serious. "Do that." he replied. "Please...just...well...you could always wear Gurshak's clothing, then no one would recognize you....Why did you take his clothing?"  
  
Of all the questions he could have asked about my actions that day and the reasons behind them, this was the one I had least expected; the answer to it seemed so very obvious that I had never even thought about offering an explanation. However, I had to concede that it might have seemed less obvious to me had I not been who I was. It was sadly true that no more fortunate elf would have stooped to take this wicked goblin's clothing, or any goblin's clothes, for that matter.  
  
Shame ran through me, less for what I had done than for what I was, what I had become. It cost me an effort to answer calmly and make my voice sound as if what I had to say was the most natural thing in the world.  
  
"These are good clothes, Mordil - warm enough to get me over the winter, and new enough to last yet a while." I managed to grin a bit. "Don't you remember? You caught me taking that cloak in the first place..."  
  
At first, Tanglinna only chuckled. "Yes, I do remember that...." A sudden frown came to his face then, and I wondered if he remembered entirely too well now how our acquaintance had started, and what he had thought of me when he had found me standing over his fallen comrade, a cloak that had not belonged to me in my hands...  
  
When he spoke again, I was surprised. "Before you go," he began, hesitating for a moment and studying me as if he was trying to determine how I would react to what he was going to say, "I want you to have my cloak...and my tunic. I can be home soon and I can certainly make it that far without them. If you cannot use them, then please give them to one of your friends...or cut them down for your son."  
  
Patronizing as this could have sounded, it did not, and his words were still coloured by kindness and genuine concern when he went on: "And...if you do come to visit, I will make certain that there is plenty of clothing and things to take back with you."  
  
Had this been said by anyone else, and in a slightly different voice, I would have felt hurt and most humiliated by this offer – did I look like a beggar in desperate need of alms? Well... I probably did, and even if I claimed that I was something else in fact, it was not too far from what I actually was. Things had to change, they really had to change... And perhaps they would.  
  
Meeting Tanglinna's gaze, hoping that he would know that I was grateful at least for the spirit behind his offer, even if I did not accept it, I shook my head a little and replied: "This is very kind of you, but... this is not necessary. Look!"  
  
I reached into my pocket, pulling out Gurshak's exquisite cloak clasp and studying it for a moment. "This is rather valuable... It will mean new clothes for everyone... or even more than that." Yes, even more than that... This clasp might just be what we had always hoped to find, something precious enough to buy more than a new garment, a short stay at an inn or the like. If we sold it well, then we might be rich enough to...  
  
At that point, I became aware that I was perhaps a bit too bold in assuming that the lovely brooch was ours, or mine – I had not been alone when I had taken it, and perhaps, someone else had a greater right to have it. I looked up at Tanglinna with quite a guilty expression. "Unless, of course, you want to keep it... as some sort of reparation... Gurshak did unpleasant things to you, after all."  
  
This suggestion caused Tanglinna to snort with laughter, and I could tell that he was not acting. "Do not be ridiculous! I want nothing of his! You are more than welcome to it! But please, at least take my cloak. Nights are cold and you do not know how long it will be before you will be able to trade that" – he pointed at the small treasure in my hand – "clasp for what you need. Truly, it is the least I can do for you."  
  
For a heartbeat, I hesitated, but knowing that he meant to be kind, meant to help me, not to shame me, I chose not to treat this as a humiliating gesture, but as a friend's gift to a friend. "Thank you."  
  
Tanglinna seemed almost relieved that I had accepted. "Good. I owe you something for this excellent brandy, after all." He winked and grinned, probably fleetingly aware that the 'excellent brandy' had done its work on him quite well.  
  
I smiled, and it was a smile containing many feelings, amusement at his expression, but also fondness and a fair amount of gratitude; was he aware at all how much he had done for me in these few hours, and not just by giving me his cloak? He owed me nothing.  
  
But these were not things I would speak of now; I preferred to give him a light-hearted, somewhat silly reply. "Admittedly, it was not *my* brandy... Thank our noble goblin friends the next time you meet them!" With this, I returned his wink.  
  
"Let us hope there is no next time...regardless of how good their brandy is!" Tanglinna remarked, gazing back the way we had come. We could indeed only hope that Gurshak and his charming friends had decided not to follow us here, and that we would not meet them again any time soon! I was quite certain that Tanglinna thought the same thing, and he must have known that I thought it; there was no need to utter it aloud.  
  
Instead, he smiled a bit and continued: "If you do come to Mirkwood...well, you are IN Mirkwood now, but if you come to where I live in Mirkwood, then I might even let you give me a few lessons in swordsmanship...in case there is a ... next time." He laughed slightly, doubtlessly attempting to sound as if he was speaking in jest, but not quite succeeding; what had happened was still too close to make light of it.  
  
Nevertheless, I chuckled a bit and promised: "You will be given a few sword fighting lessons... And I promise to be kind to your poor wrists." Turning to look at him, and growing more serious, I added: "I *will* come to Mirkwood... to where you live in Mirkwood... at some point... Not tonight, but before you have forgotten me." And even though I winked again now, I did mean what I had said. Things would change.  
  
"I doubt I will forget you, Alagaith Alagaerion. I am not *that* drunk!" Tanglinna answered. "But you will come?" He sounded surprised, but rather pleased, and I was glad; it would not end here, with the troublesome thief being sent away again to be forgotten.  
  
I hesitated, feeling tempted for a moment to ask if he thought of a mere visit now, or if he could, perhaps, imagine another way of 'coming to Mirkwood'; but asking this question would have meant to ask him to turn the vague shape of a plan that was forming in my head into a definite decision for me, and that, he could not do – but I could. "I will come... and so will Alagant, if you do not mind." I could have added that my father was not likely to abandon me, either, but I would not make any promises for him. He was bound to be terrified by the strange idea his son was toying with, and although old captains of Nargothrond do not easily admit that they are scared, I knew he would be scared by the prospect of being kept under close supervision by a bunch of wood-elves – for this was how it would begin, with a very miserable and unpleasant time, and this was only if we were lucky, if *I* was lucky...  
  
Tanglinna apparently did not harbour such dismal thoughts. "I would love to meet your son! I look forward to it." he said with a happy smile, obviously unaware of all the difficulties that would present themselves.  
  
I returned his smile; aware of what I had in mind or not, he would be a faithful friend and ally, and that was comforting to know.  
  
"I look forward to our next meeting...unless you forget about me!" Tanglinna went on, laughing at this – forgetting about each other, our peculiar friendship or this day in general would have been impossible indeed!  
  
"I shall certainly never forget about you, or about the things you said." I assured him.  
  
Tanglinna was too drunk and too tired to think about the fact that words that would not be forgotten might not only be remembered, but also taken to heart and used well; perhaps he was not even listening properly any more.  
  
Setting down the empty bottle on the ground, he eased onto his back and announced: "I believe that I will stay here for the night...I don't want to stumble into one of our patrols in this condition." With a wry smile, he added: "I take it you will be leaving here soon?"  
  
I shook my head. "Not before the first light... I do not want to meet one of your patrols either; stumbling around in an unknown forest at night is seldom wise." It would not have been wise either to leave a friend who had just been through his first experience with orcish brandy, and had enjoyed it rather too much, alone in a forest aswarm with giant spiders and very strange goblins, but I did not voice this thought.  
  
"Seldom wise indeed." Tanglinna agreed. "If those scared younglings are out there they might shoot you and then ask who you are." He chortled slightly, and the soft chuckle turned into laughter quickly, provoked by some joke or amusing observation he would not share with me. "You are welcome to share my cloak then. At first light, we shall both be on our way." TBC  
  



	10. Chapter 9 Decisions Made

A tall Noldorin elf is kneeling gracefully before the most dread creation ever concocted in the darkest pits of Angband; but he is not trembling with fear and trepidation in its dismaying presence. No, this brave elf is crooning very softly to it in a kind voice that bespeaks of nothing save tender regard. The language that spills from his lips with such sincerity is not his mother tongue of Quenya, but the nearly vanished language of his rustic woodland cousins – Silvan.  
  
His companion gapes at him in amazement, quite surprised, and rather delighted, that he knows Silvan! But then he chuckles to himself. Of course he would know that language. His lady-wife had been a Silvan.  
  
"Good luck, Linlote," he chortles. "I think it prefers Silvan actually, so perhaps it will be nice for you this time. Remember to stroke it oh-so- gently," he continues in a knowing voice, putting his feet up and stroking the warm teacup in his hand as if to demonstrate. Then he raises the cup to his lips, waiting to see if the vile machine will cooperate.  
  
Alagaith nods, gently caressing the lid of the printer, one long finger easing downward to gently press the "PRINT" button. The printer hums to life, both elves holding their breath in anticipation. Finally, the paper engages and slides smoothly into the machine and the printed reviews begin to appear.  
  
"It really seems to prefer Silvan, Mordil....Interesting, really," Alagaith comments with a small grin. "I hope you will pour me a cup of tea without any Silvan nonsense and gentle stroking being necessary?" he adds as he stands, shuffling the papers together.  
  
"I think the teapot and the teacup might feel neglected if I do not stroke them, but...if you insist."  
  
Tanglinna pours another cup of tea, handing it to his co-adventurer.  
  
"The story is finally coming to an end, Linlote. Isn't that exciting?" Silver-grey eyes sparkle at the prospect of leaving Gurshak far behind him, never to be seen or heard from again.  
  
"Thank you," Alagaith says graciously, taking the cup and smiling in that oh-so-innocent smile that is more of a warning to those who know him well. "Yes, it is fairly exciting....Especially," he pauses as he reads over the reviews, "since kingmaker seems to believe that you will meet a rather sudden death, as it seems! He says he hopes that you will be able to meet Seven before you die.... Have you got any intention of dying in this last chapter?" One elegantly sculpted eyebrow shoots up at this most dire thought. "I do not hope so!"  
  
Tanglinna frowns as he contemplates what this might mean.  
  
"Well," he begins slowly, "no, not that I am aware of." Suddenly, he heaves a sigh. "But with these fanfiction authors, one can never tell. I do hope I can meet Seven before my untimely...demise." Not even TreeHugger could kill him off! Could she?  
  
"Those fanfiction authors will not simply kill you, Mordil! I will not let them!" Alagaith declares bravely, nearly spilling his tea when he brandishes the papers before him. "But of course...." Here, he heaves a grand sigh. "They could also kill both of us.... One never knows. But let us hurry up a little – or wellduh...will be disappointed that the reviewer responses are long yet again!" He winks jauntily at wellduh.  
  
"Long, but amusing at least," Tanglinna agrees with a grin. "And yes, confusing." He chuckles for confusion does tend to run rampant at times. "I think I will die being...KICKED to death by Ubiquitous Pitt. Not a pleasant prospect, and she certainly gave it a good try. And to think," he groans in self-pity, "it is because my mother was a Noldo!" He shakes his silvery head, knowing that the red-headed vixen usually likes it when he tosses his hair around; and then he cocks one eyebrow. "Yet she kisses and hugs you, and you are completely a Noldo! How very unfair!"  
  
Alagaith sighs.  
  
"I already told her so, and she decided not to give me any cupcakes or brandy again for my being so impolite....But look!" He gestures to a review. "The evil witch queen pities you.... She calls you 'poor Tanglinna'! Perhaps she has already had a frightening vision of your being KICKED to death? Or is it really only that she feels sorry because of the hangover you – or we – will have after all that brandy?" he queries, and then winks at Tanglinna.  
  
The Silvan archer chuckles at this.  
  
"I think many of our readers were a bit worried about the hangovers. I think we should sing one of WeasleyTwinsLover1112's songs." He then proceeds to burst forth into somewhat raucous singing that certainly sounds like he deserves to have a hangover:  
  
""I've got a lovely bunch of coconuts doodly do do do There they are all standing in a row bom bom bom big ones small ones some as big as your head give 'em a twist a flick of the wrist that's wut the show man said."  
  
Then, his brows furrow.  
  
"But tell me, Linlote. What is a coconut?"  
  
Alagaith thinks very hard on this most puzzling thing.  
  
"Going by the strange name," he begins with a look of great concentration on his fair face, "it might be something from far Harad.... But...I must admit that I do not really know." He thinks for yet another moment and finally shakes his head in defeat. "Anyway, it is wise of you only to sing the song WeasleyTwinsLover1112 suggested.... Quite a clever way of getting around that questionable song Hel is so interested in. Now, tell us, Mordil....Just what was so questionable about it?"  
  
Tanglinna gazes coolly at his companion.  
  
"We have no time for that now, Linlote. And I do not want to end up back in the dungeon minus my 'prattling, untalented tongue', as a certain golden- haired demon with flowers in his hair told me...after that smirking Ecthelhador drenched me with icy water. Thank you, but no, I shall not tell you. We were just lucky that Thranduil did not come upon us in the woods as Dis Thrainsdotter feared. We would both have been in much more dire straits than we finally were when all was said and done...well, nearly said and done."  
  
He winks then and Alagaith grins slightly.  
  
"Yes, nearly said and done.... But, hm.... Tell me what daw the minstrel's enigmatic remark means! She says you would be less like me when you are sober.... Does that mean a drunken Silvan is more like a Noldo than a sober Silvan, or that it hardly matters if I am drunk or not, or, well...." He cocks his dark head, rereading the review carefully as he tries to unravel it.  
  
It is Tanglinna's turn to grin.  
  
"Perhaps she means that I will be my normal, reserved self when I am no longer such a wagging tongue from consuming too much of that orcish stuff. The evil witch queen found our somewhat unguarded conversation to be sweet. I did not know we could be sweet, did you, Linlote?"  
  
"No, I did not," Alagaerion chuckles. "But perhaps we are when we are drunk and only don't remember afterwards." He winks sweetly. "But I believe we must comfort amlugwen, her elf-girl, and Rûzkash her orc a little now. – it seems they all found the chapter somewhat sad!"  
  
"That was not the intention. I apologize for saddening you all, though honestly, Linlote! I suspect that Rûzkash was sad only because there were no orcs leaping about to slay us in our drunken state." The archer gazes at the orc, one brow raised. "Ah well. Nilmandra thinks we have a great deal in common. I would agree...most of the time, but...." He heaves yet another sigh. "Ai, Valar! It appears that Ceana likes you quite well...your being a Noldo and all, like her favorite...Maedhros. I cannot win!" He sighs dramatically, clapping his free hand to his head.  
  
Alagaith smiled at this most impressive display.  
  
"But," he counters, "she also says that she has always loved you, and she also approves of your techniques of printer-taming... You still have a chance, I believe." He grins widely, in a most placating yet playful manner. "However, we should hurry now.... Ptath cannot wait for the next chapter, so she must be very impatient by now."  
  
"Neither can Lutris, it appears. It is nice to have such lovely readers! But I think that it might be disappointing to find out that...well, dealing with Thranduil with a hangover is...never pleasant, Phoenix Flight." He winks at her and grins, thinking that he did quite well with that maddening king, after all.  
  
Alagaith laughs as he continues reading.  
  
"Well, you will need your self-developed 'art therapy', as Miss Aranel calls it, to get over that frightening experience.... She seems to find the prospect of a certain Master Archer having to pay a prolonged visit to the dungeon soon very smirk-worthy indeed." He winks at the slightly flustered Silvan, who is frowning a bit. But then Tanglinna grins and shrugs.  
  
"I suppose it is smirk-worthy. But she seems to think that you have not given up on your dreams of honesty. Have you?"  
  
"Very long ago, Mordil, actually about two days after I had to leave Nargothrond.... I am just pretending that this vague, boring concept of 'honesty' could still mean anything to me...." He grins roguishly, probably imagining all the fangurlish sighs of happiness this act will invoke. They do love a charming rogue! "I am a Skulking Cutpurse, after all!"  
  
"And always will be?" Tanglinna grins at this thought and chuckles. "We shall see. BUT...Bells of silver...do not worry. Tree has not abandoned that romantic tale yet. She is merely too lazy to walk down the stairs to fetch the tablet that the next chapter is written in so she can type it. I shall most assuredly talk to her about it."  
  
Alagaith looks over at his companion.  
  
"Speaking of romance and ladies.... We should probably explain about a certain Silvan lady appearing in this chapter before Tree's readers decide that the good and wise king must be accused of bigamy, should we not?"  
  
Tanglinna laughs at this, and knows that yes, confusion will now abound, but that it is nothing new in Tree's ever changing writings.  
  
"Yes, there is the matter of...The Joint Universe And The Rules That Apply Therein." He clears his throat and sits up very straight and proper. "Be it known that from this day forward the queen of the Joint Universe of said Dragon_of_the_north and TreeHugger shall be Firithiel the Bold and Slightly Disapproving. To become more acquainted with Her Most Royal Majesty, you must read Dragon's "Of Orcs and Elves". That is where she first appeared to grace us all with her glorious presence."  
  
Tanglinna grins and bows in Firithiel's direction.  
  
"Did that sound impressive enough, Linlote?" he asks.  
  
Alagaith grins.  
  
"Do not ask me...How should a mere Noldo thief know if this is impressive enough for Mirkwood's mighty queen? But it sounds good enough to me."  
  
He glances over the reviews once more.  
  
"What do you think? Is all answered, all said?"  
  
Tanglinna nods and leans back comfortably once more.  
  
"I believe so. And now! Wellduh, this is the end of the responses, and the chapter will begin...NOW!" He bows with a flourish, nearly sloshing his remaining tea from the cup, and points to where it reads: "Chapter 9 – Decisions Made".  
  
~**~**~**~**~**~**  
  
Authors Note – Some of the things alluded to in both POV can be found in "In the Hall of the Wood-Elf King" by TreeHugger.  
  
Chapter 9 – Decisions Made  
  
"Perhaps, you would care to tell me now what really happened?"  
  
The question was asked in a pleasant voice, masking the fact that it was, in fact, a request that could not be refused, if not an order – it was most definitely an order - and the eyes that regarded me were not those of a concerned friend, but rather a somewhat displeased king, whose subject had disobeyed him – wilfully and knowingly, and made no apology for it whatsoever. I think that Thranduil might have been a little worried about my whereabouts before, but that had vanished when I had appeared, relatively unharmed and, more importantly, without the prisoner. I had known he would not be pleased with this...development so I was not surprised that he was slightly put out with me. I had surmised correctly. But ... sometimes it does not feel so good to be right.  
  
My timing could have been better perhaps, but I had delayed it as long as I could, wishing my pounding headache would lessen before I got there...it is somewhat hard to form coherent, let alone witty remarks that remained humble and without sarcasm when one's head is reminding one forcefully that what one did the night before was absolutely stupid and inexcusable. Orcish brandy.... Perhaps it did not kill the elves that drank it, it merely made them wish they were dead the next day!  
  
When I arrived back at the palace, word had obviously been sent ahead by the scouts that I had not seen.... Yes, I knew they were there, but I had not been in the mood to show that the Master Archer knew they were there - and certainly not snickering scouts who should show more respect! - and I certainly was not in the mood to answer any questions they might have about 'why are you late, Master Tanglinna and where is the thief? Everyone else has been back for some time now...." No, telling this tale once would have to be sufficient, and Thranduil would be the one that I would tell it too. If I had been fortunate, and I was not, Thranduil would be able to speak to me alone. I should have known that things were not going to go the way I had hoped when the first people I met were Prince Legolas, Brethil, and Tavor.  
  
"Oh, Master Tanglinna! Where have you been? What happened?" Brethil trotted ahead of the others, his eyes filled with relief at the sight of me. "King Thranduil was just about to send Nimdir and Laebrui back out to find you! They told the king that - "  
  
"Yes, Brethil," I interrupted with a sigh, pressing my fingers to my throbbing temples. "I can well imagine what Nimdir and Laebrui were saying." I turned to Legolas then. "Where is your adar, caun-nin?" It was best to get this over with quickly – as quickly as I possibly could.  
  
My eyes lit on the much shorter warrior's braid behind the prince's left ear. I frowned. Thranduil had decided that Legolas would have to wear only the shorn lock in the braid, and not attempt to plait it in with the longer hair to make it look as normal as possible. This was his 'punishment' for his earlier lack of... discretion when the dwarves had been...'visiting' us.  
  
My frown deepened as I thought of my own guilty part in that night, and the loss of the prince's hair. Ai, Valar! What had I been thinking?! I hoped that Thranduil would not decide this was a good time to remember that he had not yet found any suitable 'punishment' for my actions during those incredibly silly days.  
  
"Where is your cloak, Master Tanglinna? Did that thief steal it? Oh, dear! That was not very polite of him, but...what is that...smell?"  
  
I fear that I might have glared just a bit too much at Brethil then. I knew that I still retained an...odour from my ordeal with Gurshak, a decidedly...unwanted one of his perfume, but I admit that I had forgotten it until that moment. It did not help my patience in dealing with what was coming at all. I was already angry and I still had not seen the king!  
  
"Your adar is *where*?" I repeated, ignoring Brethil's comment, though my voice sounded harsh in my own ears, and the words had been spit through clenched teeth.  
  
I heard a snicker coming from Tavor and a quiet remark that I smelled as sweet as Seregon, a young maiden that had the ill tendency of drenching herself in the expensive perfumes from the East. I rounded on him, my eyes narrowed in a glare that was an obvious threat...yes, obvious since he blanched and looked away.  
  
Legolas was still staring at me, his mouth slightly agape, brows knit. I did not want to know what he was thinking.  
  
"Ah...he, uh...."  
  
Finally, he managed to tell me, though he continued to look at me oddly. Curse Gurshak and his stinking orc perfume! I grimaced, wishing that I had stopped to bathe before coming home, but it was too late for such regrets. There was nothing I could do about it now.  
  
I turned resolutely in the direction Legolas had indicated, but taken no more than three steps - determined to be honest and to *not* lose my temper with the king at all, no matter what he did or said – when Thranduil appeared, followed by a small entourage, with Nimdir and Laebrui amongst them.  
  
Yes, there was concern on his face then, and I realized just how...disappointed he would be in me when he found out that no, the thief had not overpowered me, beaten me savagely, and left me tied helplessly to a tree.  
  
"Tanglinna," he began, his eyes sweeping over me, no doubt looking for the serious debilitating injuries that had been inflicted by that most savage Noldorin thief.  
  
I fear something must have shown on my face, some weakness or guilt, for his eyes narrowed and he gazed at me coolly and appraisingly, looking me in the eyes.  
  
"You are late," he said in a clipped voice.  
  
"I am glad to see you as well," I returned.  
  
"You look...ghastly!"  
  
"I feel ghastly. Thank you for your concern."  
  
I fear I sounded very sarcastic at this point. I just could not help it. I did feel ghastly, though it was rude of him to point out that I looked that way as well!  
  
Thranduil's eyes narrowed to bright chips of blue ice that would put the jagged, grinding Helcaraxe to shame!  
  
"Why is there only one of you," he asked in a low voice, "when there should be two?"  
  
"I was never aware that there was more than one of me, hir-nin," I said calmly, though this witty repartee made my head ache even more abominably. "I would have thought you would be...glad that I am the only one of me."  
  
It was the wrong thing to say and I knew it...so why had I said it? It must have been a lingering affect of that brandy!  
  
"Where is the thief that I left in your charge?" he asked, straightening and looking very kingly indeed...a very angry king.  
  
"That...is a long story," I began, thinking that I should use a bit more tact from now on. I did not want to tell this most...embarrassing tale to anyone but him!  
  
"I am listening."  
  
Indeed, they all were. More people had gathered, Galion and Ecthelhador had joined them; Galion out of friendly concern, Ecthelhador doubtless wanted to see me get into trouble of some sort. Word had obviously spread that the Master Archer had returned home empty-handed and now they were eager to see what would befall. I caught a glimpse of Anirathiel; she was shaking her dark head in bemusement, her grey eyes alight. I grinned at her, yet another mistake for Thranduil had caught this exchange and knew that I was being deliberately trying.  
  
"And the thief escaped you how?" he prompted when I did not immediately begin my tale.  
  
"It...it is a long tale, hir-nin," I repeated. Surely, he would not make me tell it here? "Might I sit? I am feeling just a bit weary and worn from all my trials." I tried to look exhausted, not so very hard at all since I felt exhausted. I also hoped that I appeared to need some sympathy...some pity. But it did not work.  
  
He glared at me.... It appeared my acting skills had not improved over the last day's time. I shrugged slightly. What had I expected?  
  
"You will stand, though everyone else may sit. But we will move inside, I think."  
  
He motioned for Ecthelhador to 'escort' me, which the captain did, looking as though he were enjoying this a little too much.  
  
"Gotten yourself into more trouble, have you, Master Tanglinna?" he snorted, his eyes filled with merriment as he took one of my arms in his hand to lead me inside. "What is that *smell*? It is almost like...'Dreams of Far Rhun'," he said speculatively, sniffing the air as he named the rather expensive Eastern perfume that was so coveted. Then he grinned once more.  
  
I yanked my arm from his grasp with a growl and deliberately hastened my steps, causing him to run slightly to catch up to me.  
  
And so it began, not with telling my story to Oropher's son alone, but with the court filled with people, and Thranduil and Firithiel gazing at me from their seats on the dais.  
  
"Well, Tanglinna, we are waiting. Where were you?"  
  
I frowned slightly, and then sighed. I had determined to tell the truth, as no made up tale could possibly be as fantastic. But as I thought over what I would say, I realized how truly awkward certain parts of this story were. Would I be able to conceal the most disconcerting parts and details? Why had I not taken Alagaith up on the offer of creating a story to tell? It was too late now though. Thranduil was staring at me expectantly, and the others that had gathered to hear the Master Archer's tale as to why, for the first time in his life, he had failed to carry out a duty. They gazed at me like I was some silver-tongued minstrel! But my tale was heroic...even if I was not the hero but...the damsel in distress that needed rescuing from the dastardly villain....Valar! Why did I not let Alagaith help me concoct something less truthful but more believable...and less distressing?!  
  
"Are you having trouble recalling where you have been, Tanglinna?" the king asked with a sigh. "Or are you still trying to think of what story you want to tell?"  
  
There was a soft ripple of laughter and I glared at that most annoying Sinda.  
  
"I do not have to think of what story to tell you!" I barked. "I will tell you the true story, never fear!"  
  
Thranduil merely smiled indulgently and waved his hand.  
  
"Pray, begin then."  
  
I ground my teeth, fixing my eyes on some point ab0ve Thranduil's golden head - the lovely yellow butterfly in the mural behind him - and began my tale. I suppose I should have said that there were to be no interruptions, questions, comments, or snide remarks – particularly from golden-haired kings – but I suppose it did not occur to me until that golden-haired king held up one elegant hand, a very exaggerated frown of curiosity on his face.  
  
"You mean to tell me that there is a goblin lair just hours from here that I know nothing about?"  
  
"Yes. I told you, we fell into the lair by accident. The opening was not obvious."  
  
"Hm.... Most curious. Please continue."  
  
I suppressed and exasperated sigh...nearly... and did as I was commanded; only to be interrupted not long afterwards by that grinning imp with gleaming eyes. Firithiel's gaze was most chill, her eyes icy beneath her spill of rich hair.  
  
"Curioser and curioser," Thranduil said, cocking his head to one side. "Tanglinna, oh, please tell me that the third goblin with that oh-so- lovely perfume – 'Dreams of Far Rhun' isn't it? - was not named...Gurshak."  
  
I had purposefully *not* named any of the goblins! I had hoped that by deliberately omitting certain...details, I could tell the tale quickly and succinctly and leave this situation behind me. The result would be the same, so why drag out this torment with awkward details? I reluctantly admitted that, yes, Gurshak had been the third goblin. I hoped that this admission would make him realize that I was being honest, brutally so even if it was upsetting to me and to please not pursue this line of questioning any further!  
  
But, it appeared that someone who was both wise and very wicked had already seen through my attempt at avoiding certain things. I need not have answered for Thranduil chuckled knowingly, as did a few others – all older elves that had excellent memories and never forgot anything! My cheeks flared red and I glared at Thranduil the harder, though it made my head ache abominably.  
  
"Please continue," he said, waving his hand again, "Daurshul."  
  
My mouth sagged open, one fist clenching and he should have been glad that he was several steps away from me!  
  
"Why is your adar calling Master Tanglinna 'Daurshul', Legolas?" I heard Brethil ask in a voice that was rather too loud and that carried a little too well.  
  
"I do not know," the prince answered, in a voice only slightly lower. "We shall have to ask him."  
  
Whether they meant to ask Thranduil or myself, I do not know for Arasceleg spoke then.  
  
"No need, caun-nin," he said in a delighted voice and I turned to see him grinning just as widely as Thranduil. "I will be glad to tell you the story of the rescue of the 'silver-haired lovely' Daurshul."  
  
There was more laughter as I turned to fully face Arasceleg, only to be met with that irritating unflappable Silvan inscrutability. He was older than I was and not at all impressed with 'you yapping and yipping like a pup' as he had told me on more than one occasion.  
  
"You must tell us all, Arasceleg," Ecthelhador called with a laugh. I refused to look at him for it would only make him laugh the more! I knew that the captain of the guard already knew that story for all his feigned innocence, the story told so merrily by Celair and Oropher, much to my chagrin.  
  
"What happened next, Daurshul? Did Gurshak chain you up as he did before?" Suddenly, he laughed. "So....You wanted to use "Dreams of Far Rhun to turn yourself into a 'Dream of Rhovanion' for your admirer, did you?"  
  
I did growl at Ecthelhador's remark, moving a step toward him, my fist clenched ready to smash it into his smirking face. If, perhaps, I had not been chained up 'as he did before', AND I did not smell quite so...dreamy, I would not have felt quite so angry, but Thranduil held up his hand to forestall the throttling I was eager to give the captain.  
  
"Continue with the tale, Tanglinna. We do not want to be here all night," he said, a smirk playing around his lips. "You must be...wearied after your...tryst with your admirer."  
  
I drew several deep breathes, trying to dispel my anger, force my scattered thoughts back into submission and coherency that did not include anything about strangling captains or kings. But then, I heard Brethil speaking again.  
  
"Did Ecthelhador say this has happened before? Why would a goblin want to capture Master Tanglinna...except to kill him, of course. Poor Master Tanglinna! That goblin must have meant to torture him!"  
  
There was some snickering then and entirely too many pairs of bright eyes rested on me, and too many murmurs about what sort of 'torture' Gurshak would inflict up my body. I shook my head, forcing my eyes back to the mural painted on the wall behind Thranduil, finding the small yellow butterfly that served as a focus for my attention.  
  
I continued, ignoring everyone but that tiny butterfly, knowing that it would not think ill of me or say anything that I did not wish to hear. Perhaps if I ignored them, they would know that their remarks had humiliated me enough and it would be time to stop. But then –  
  
"Surely, they were not suggesting that...." Legolas did not finish his sentence, did not need to, for the laughter started again and Tavor said in a decidedly pleased voice, "Surely, I think they were!" And Brethil's "Ohhhh....Oh, my! That cannot be! Can it? But they did say 'admirer', didn't they.... Oh, my!"  
  
By now everyone in the room understood why Gurshak wanted to capture me...and it was not to kill me.... Would that he had wanted merely to kill me!  
  
Even more embarrassing was when Lady Laureahiril, Tavor's formidable grandmother, spoke up in a voice meant to carry – and it did.  
  
"I always knew certain Silvans were very strange. Cavorting with goblins! Indeed!"  
  
It did not progress well from there.  
  
"Why did *you* not challenge the goblin to a sword fight? Were you afraid you would hurt your admirer?"  
  
"What *would* you have done if the thief had lost the sword fight?"  
  
"What if...?" "What would...?" "What...?"  
  
It was a long tale in the telling indeed, and I told it truthfully and with as much dignity as I could, though my face burned with embarrassment, and my temper was fraying very rapidly. I do not know if anyone believed me when I told how noble and kind this Noldorin thief truly was. *That* had been the reason for telling it, not all the other things they had so delighted in. By the end of it, I *was* weary and worn, my head aching incessantly, my stomach pinched with hunger and I wanted nothing more than a hot bath, a hot meal, and a warm bed! And NO ONE TALKING TO ME OR AT ME!!  
  
But when at last I told that I had let Alagaith go – not sharing our more intimate conversations with them – there was a small gasp of disbelief from several of those assembled and I could see that they were indeed shocked by this, though some did look sympathetic, and someone, I could not see who as my back was to them, muttered, "Oropher would have his head for disobeying an order."  
  
Obviously, they did not know Oropher as well as I had. Oropher would have found this amusing and he would have agreed that Alagaith should have been set free. But this was Thranduil and I could see the doubt that shone in his eyes...doubt that I had even told the truth at all about any of it.  
  
"Perhaps, you would care to tell me now what really happened?"  
  
Yes, there it was. How could that fantastic tale of capture, imprisonment, torture, and a friendship born in darkness be true? What more had I expected? Perhaps if I had not felt so tired and wretched, angry and emotionally drained from the experience of the last night, I would have handled this better than I did. My shoulders slumped. I was defeated. They had not believed me after all.  
  
"So," Thranduil drawled, leaning back in his chair, "you just let him go, just like that."  
  
I nodded curtly, feeling that I was losing my already tenuous grip on my temper. There is something so very frustrating about telling the truth – being utterly humiliated by it - and then having no one believe you!  
  
"It is exactly as I have told it," I said in a tight voice.  
  
"He did not just...vanish into thin air? Like one of Mithrandir's tricks?"  
  
"Or like Bilbo," I heard Brethil whisper. I frowned. What did the Perian have to do with this? Brethil, Legolas, and Tavor were seated behind me, in the front row of listeners and I could hear his words quite clearly. Unfortunately, so did Thranduil.  
  
He shot a look at the three younglings, as did I. They immediately looked away, Brethil gasping and clapping his hands over his mouth while Legolas grimaced, ducking his head as his cheeks reddening with embarrassment. Tavor's eyes widened and his mouth sagged open. He would, undoubtedly, have begun muttering about the Halls of Mandos if I had not turned back to the king and said,  
  
"No, he did not vanish into thin air," I growled. "I let him go. Why will you not believe me?! Do you think I made up that tale just to amuse you?!"  
  
"He probably did not notice him sneaking off and does not want to admit it," someone else muttered with a laugh. "His hawk's eyes are not as keen as they should be at times. The scouts said that he did not even acknowledge them when he came staggering home earlier."  
  
Thranduil studied me in silence for a moment.  
  
"So...you are now a friend of thieves, are you?"  
  
"Only one, hir-nin," I countered, lifting one brow arrogantly, and straightening before glaring at him.  
  
"That should not surprise me at all really."  
  
I was in no mood to unravel his enigmatic sayings, but it appeared that I did not have to. He glanced at his queen, who did not look pleased with me at all. That was hardly surprising. She knew that it had been Lalven's body that Alagaith had been in the process of robbing when I caught him. Firithiel and Lalven had been very close friends, and the report of his death must have torn her heart greatly. There were rumours that if she had not contracted to marry Thranduil, she would have married Lalven – a love match on both sides. The elm leaf brooch had been her gift to him as a conception day present not many years ago. She had to be most unhappy about my letting this thief go – a Noldorin one at that.  
  
I hazarded a glance at her while Thranduil gestured to Iavas, the Keeper of the Jewels and bent to speak to him when he knelt before the dais, then sent Iavas scurrying away looking not very happy himself. Firithiel, feeling my gaze upon her, turned, our eyes meeting. I tipped my head, pressing one hand to my heart to show my regret that her close friend had died, that I shared her grief and loss. But she merely seemed to sigh and looked away.  
  
I did feel a great deal of sympathy for her, but nothing would convince me that I had made the wrong decision in regard to letting Alagaith go free. I knew that I would not escape punishment for this direct disobedience, and I would try to accept my punishment as meekly as possible.  
  
A moment later Iavas reappeared bearing in his hands a silver hinged box, painted an unrelieved black. A slight gasp went up from the assembled crowd. Everyone recognized it. It housed the most dreaded thing in the kingdom. It was no sharp-edged weapon, nor terrifying dark creature spat up from the bowels of Mordor. No, it contained a mere circlet of unadorned, beaten silver – Celeb Baud, the Silver Judgement.  
  
I winced as Thranduil opened the box and lifted the beautiful yet dread head adornment for all to see, the entwined argent spirals glinting in the light of the torches about the chamber. I drew a deep breath. So, this was how it was to be.... I smirked slightly as he held it out at arms' length, knowing that he wondered if he would be able to put it on, since the last head it had graced had been that of an orc singing a ridiculous song about the queen and the princess of the Singing Orcs. It seemed that the circlet had not sunk to the greater depths of Morn Nen - as it should have...when I had tossed it in. I felt that most unwanted smirk twisting my lips even more as Thranduil slowly lowered it, a grimace on his face, to his oh-so-golden head. Once it was firmly placed, after a great shudder of disgust worked through Thranduil's frame, he turned to regard me once more. He looked surprised by the most unrepentant look on my face. I quickly schooled my features to neutrality, but I could not help but recall the words of the song the orcs had been singing:  
  
"Their golden hair flowing, so fine and bright,  
As they came running to us in the night!  
Joy filled our hearts at that lovely sight!  
As the Queen and the Princess ran so fine and bright!"  
  
I struggled not to snicker at the absurdity of this situation...and that other situation with the singing orcs as well. Perhaps, I should sing the song, reminding him that we all, on rare occasion, were subject to humiliation of some sort and it was best put behind us as quickly as possible. But I decided to behave...for once.  
  
Thranduil's sapphire eyes flared, seeing my struggle, which was admittedly not at all appropriate to the situation.  
  
"You think this is funny, Master Archer of Mirkwood?" he intoned.  
  
"Ah, well, no," I began, unconsciously – or perhaps a bit consciously - echoing the words I had spoken on the night the dwarves had escaped the dungeons. That 'escape' had been partly Ecthelhador's fault, so I felt a little better. "That is ... well...." I *did* find it funny!  
  
It seemed that the king was not in the mood to remember that night or what had preceded it; as he straightened, his eyes grew so very cold beneath lowered brows. If he did not want to recall those events, then he should never have brought out that ridiculous circlet!  
  
"We shall see if you are more inclined to tell the truth, even if you wait a hundred years! In the dungeon!"  
  
I nearly kept a straight face at this dire pronouncement, for it had echoed what he had told Thorin Oakenshield after capturing that dwarf king 'starving in the forest', but not straight enough. Thranduil, who suddenly had been put on the defensive - which is not a pleasant place for anyone! - because of the memories he had unwittingly provoked, gripped the arms of his chair.  
  
"You think this is funny?" he repeated, which brought another wayward grin to my face. "You deliberately disobeyed an order you had been given. That is no small offence."  
  
"I am very sorry that I disobeyed you, aran-hir," I said, bowing my head, which still ached horribly, "but if you would only see that Alagaith- "  
  
"No more," he said, cutting me off. "I have heard your 'tale' and there is no need to repeat it. Since you have taken it upon yourself to let the thief flee, then you will indeed spend the time he would have spent in the dungeon."  
  
I sighed, bowing my head. It was as I had suspected. This time it was not so bad to be right. And, undoubtedly, the time Alagaith would have had to spend would not have lasted a hundred years. Or so I hoped!  
  
Ecthelhador stepped forward, gripping my arm, a grin on his face.  
  
"Normal stipulations, hir-nin?" he asked.  
  
~What else could they be?~ I thought, hoping that I could get someone to bring me some willow bark tea for my head before I was locked away and not spoken to for however long the king's pleasure was to be.  
  
I bowed to the king and queen before I was lead away, managing to grin at the gaping younglings even as I hoped Firithiel would find it in her heart to forgive me this. Ecthelhador lead me away to what was to be my new residence. He was grinning quite widely, making snide remarks about my 'unusual admirer' and my 'valiant rescuer'. At least, the cell did have gloriously blank walls, so I was not displeased and even managed a satisfied grin at my gaoler, who looked a bit perplexed by my levity.  
  
Later that night, as I sat on the bench, sipping cold tea and staring at the blank wall – Galion had been ordered to not give me any paints for the number of days it had taken me to get here empty-handed. Not that I minded that overly much. It gave me time to think over what had happened. It had been a grand adventure indeed. I wondered where Alagaith was, reunited with his family, I hoped, sharing a meal with them and telling them our marvellous tale.  
  
"Here is to you, Alagaith Alagaerion," I murmured, lifting my teacup in salute. "I hope you do not forget me too soon." Chuckling, as this was nigh impossible for I would never forget him and our time together, I took a sip of tea and smiled, silently thanking the Valar for allowing me to meet Alagaith and become his friend if only for a short moment of time. "Watch over him," I whispered. "And his family. Keep them all safe and well." I grinned. "And out of trouble," I added with another chuckle. "Definitely keep them out of trouble...."  
  
~*~*~*~*~  
  
"Perhaps, you would care to tell me now what really happened?"  
  
The question was asked in a pleasant voice, masking the fact that it was, in fact, a request that could not be refused, if not an order, and the eyes that regarded me were only partly those of a concerned father; they rather belonged to a shrewd old captain who noted every subtle change in those he was in charge of.  
  
This all too well-known look brought out the bit of defiance he had probably expected. "I told you the truth", I answered, staring straight ahead.  
  
Drawing Tanglinna's cloak more closely around him, my father chuckled softly. "I do not doubt that, foolish elfling! But something is on your mind, I can tell that much."  
  
Of course, he was very right; something was on my mind, and something had been on my mind ever since we had met again the day before.  
  
It had taken me almost two days to find my friends and family again, or, more precisely, to be found by them; had they not posted my sharp-eyed father as a sentry, I might have overlooked their hiding place completely. Sometimes, it could be very impractical to have so many shrewd old warriors, who were used to moving even larger numbers of warriors through difficult territory unseen, around.  
  
I could describe our happy reunion in loving detail now, recounting embraces and kisses and the happy nonsense exchanged on such occasions, but perhaps, it will be sufficient to quote the lovely, gentle words Seven found for me once I had been released from the last of a long row of hugs and had finally been allowed to take a seat by the low fire, one arm firmly wrapped around Alagant:  
  
"You smell worse than Buzrak on his wedding day! Where have you been?" Apparently, Gurshak was not the only goblin with a questionable taste in perfume.   
In any case, I had been more than glad about the happy reunion, and not only because it had felt very good to be embraced, to hold Alagant and to see concern, relief and affection in the faces around me. We had met again just in time to prevent them from doing something utterly foolish; the place where I had run into them had told me very well that they had been on their way to Mirkwood, and I did not even want to imagine now what would have happened if I had not arrived and made all daring rescue plans unnecessary.... If Mordil had not let me go....  
  
I had tried to paint a vivid portrait, as favourable as sincere, of him while I had told the others the incredible tale of our adventures, had sworn that, no, I was *not* exaggerating in my description of Gurshak and had heartily agreed with Alagant that 'Slasher' had been very foolish to fall in love with Tanglinna, for "...they could never have any elflings or orclings, could they?"  
  
For the following minutes, the conversation had deteriorated into a discussion of the questions if there could have been 'elflings or orclings' if Tanglinna had been an elven lady, what to call the child of an elf and an orc, and if there were any such children or orcs and elves in love with each other at all; I had smiled at my father who had claimed – much to Half-Dead's and Seven's dismay – that he had seen an elf-maiden and an orc-guard kiss in the mines, had ruffled Alagant's tousled curls and could have been content.  
  
I had told them the truth, had revealed that I carried a fortune in my pocket, had listened with a silent smile to all the grand and glorious plans that had been made when it had become apparent that this brooch was worth at least one good winter and had nodded my consent when Seven had stated that he knew a place a bit east of Mirkwood where he could sell the precious clasp to orcs, but I had not mentioned Mirkwood or what Tanglinna had said about starting a new life, neither on this first evening nor during the next day.  
  
Now, night had fallen again, and they were all peacefully asleep, not counting my father who would not desist and knew very well that I was hiding something. Of course, I had known that I would have to tell him – and the others – about my plans at some point, but this knowledge had been comfortingly vague, a thing carelessly thought without really imagining what the moment would be like. Finding myself put in a situation in which giving an answer was inevitable was not pleasant; I was afraid of saying what I had to say, and even more afraid of what was to come.  
  
It would have been tempting to invent a convenient lie, or to reveal yet another part of the truth, a thing like Tanglinna's great sorrow that had not failed to move me. I did not *have* to go to Mirkwood, or even to think and talk about it; but thinking about the matter thoroughly, I felt that I wanted to in spite of all my fear of what was to come.  
  
If these worries had only pertained to what the elves of Mirkwood would do to me if I arrived in their forest with a bold request, you might rightfully call me a coward, afraid of what he justly deserved; but this was not what had kept me from mentioning my plans until now. I feared, in fact, that my decision to go to Mirkwood would cost me no less than the trust and friendship of those who had been my friends, almost my family, for countless years.  
  
They would not understand, that much was certain; although they would be too polite to say it aloud, they would think that I was choosing ridiculously unimportant things – a place to live and some faint semblance of outward honesty – over their company, their friendship.... Over them.  
  
Seven could not accompany me to Mirkwood under any circumstances, and I doubted that he would have wished to do so, even if the Wood-elves had been more open-minded. Half-Dead and Well-Armed, being elves, could have gone there, of course, even though I did not know what Mirkwood's inhabitants would have thought of a whole invasion of repentant thieves, but they would not want to stay there, I knew that very well. They certainly dreamt of a better life, an honest life, at that, at times – but their hopes probably mirrored what Noseless had found, unquestioning acceptance by few, a quiet home, a different kind of solitude. Venturing into the very centre of a realm, facing a charge and only able to hope for the best, was the last thing any of them would have done.  
  
If I went to Mirkwood, it would be without them, and something that had been precious would be damaged or even destroyed. They had understood well enough that other time, when I had hoped to be able to live with Belegweth and her parents – love was a good and valid reason, one readily accepted.... But I had no reason now, none they could understand, at least, and while I would not change my decision, I was almost certain that I would have to pay a higher price for it than just my pride, at least part of my freedom and perhaps my hand.  
  
Although I knew what had driven each of them into the life we all now led, I had never thought about their reasons too much, considering the knowledge that they had known better times, just as I had, and could not go back any more as sufficient; but thinking about them now, I was acutely aware that they had *chosen* this life quite consciously over whatever honest life they could have had, from the high honours Well-Armed had discarded to the meagre living Seven had made in the mines.  
  
In contrast to this, the only real decision I had ever made in this matter had been not to let myself be dragged to Nargothrond for a trial that would have cost me my head, and I had not thought much about anything until I had been branded; later, I had been content to believe that this brand barred all roads, and several incidents, the one with Belegweth's family being the most shameful, had seemed to prove me right.  
  
Now, however, I did have a clear choice, between leaving things untouched and accepting Tanglinna's half-invitation, and the decision was mine to make, and had been made. I could only hope that at least my father would understand, but I will admit frankly that I was not sure.  
  
It is best to get over quickly with unpleasant things, and I had already hesitated for too long a time. So when I finally turned to face my father, I spoke quickly and firmly, forbidding myself to worry too much: "Mordil and I talked a lot that last night, when we shared the brandy, and he would mention suspiciously often that Mirkwood was a good place to live and that he thought that it would not be impossible for me to change my life if I only tried with the right people. So I wonder whether he actually meant that I should come to Mirkwood, turn myself in and hope for their mercy and better days to come."  
  
I had expected astonishment, even silent shock, at my words; the answer I got surprised me quite a bit. "That would explain quite neatly why he said 'you do not have to follow me if you do not wish to', as you report he did", my father replied with the same stoic expression that would enter his face when he rode to battle or during the dinner parties of exceedingly boring acquaintances and relatives. "And you consider doing what he alluded to." It was not a question.  
  
"You would not be opposed to it?" I enquired.  
  
My father was silent for some time. "You have thought about this for days, thoroughly enough," he finally replied, "so I have every confidence that you have made a wise decision."  
  
And when I stared at him in wonder, not quite ready to believe my ears, he continued: "You must be aware that this will be a stony path, that others will not approve of your plans, that your right hand is as good as forfeit... But you *are* aware of that."  
  
I nodded, more grateful for his support than he probably knew. I should have told him how glad I was that he would stand by me, how much his unquestioning loyalty meant – but all I managed to say was a pathetic thing that made me sound like a lost elfling: "Will you come with me?"  
  
He smiled then, not looking like the stern captain of Nargothrond any more, but entirely like my father as he gently put his arm around my shoulders. "I might", he answered, and that was much. "Not straightaway, though; someone should stay behind and look after the little one" – his eyes moved to rest upon Alagant, who was fast asleep, one surprisingly heavy little arm and a dragon placed on my left leg – "while you make an effort to get yourself into trouble." He gazed at the others, sleeping as well, and added: "I am not sure if you can count on them any more once you have told them."  
  
He was right, and I had known so before he had spoken; yet, hearing his words, I felt their truth like a sharp, unexpected pain. Being unable to count on them.... That was not as it was supposed to be – I had been able to rely on them for so long, and they on me.... But now, I would be the traitor, the one who ran away.  
  
"They will not be pleased", I remarked, contemplating Seven's sleeping form.  
  
My father gave a nod. "Indeed not – and you should bear one thing in mind. It is entirely possible that the elves of Mirkwood will not want you; your new friend may have spoken to you kindly, wishing to offer encouragement and help, but a mere archer, however respected and admired, is in no position to make a decision in such matters."  
  
"I know", I replied; indeed, the thought that I was taking a great risk and that I might end up in Mirkwood's dungeons, my hand forfeit, but my plea rejected, had haunted me these past few days.  
  
"Of course you do; you are not stupid", the elf who was entirely too ready to term me 'foolish elfling' on occasion replied. "And this was not what I was heading. If the Wood-elves send you away again, it may well be that you will not be welcomed back into this life too readily."  
  
To this, I had no answer, but I knew well enough that his concern was not pointless; if I annoyed and disappointed my friends now, they would not be too happy if I returned later because the Wood-elves had driven me away. Perhaps, they would not tell me to leave and never come back, but they would doubtlessly make me feel to a certain extent that I had first deserted them and only crawled back because I had no better place to go to. What had been would be no more once I had left for Mirkwood.  
  
"What do you think?" I asked, really wishing to hear his honest opinion. "Is there any hope? Shall I go?"  
  
"You should not ask that last question", my father said with a wry smile. "Do you believe in earnest that I will tell my son to go to a place where he will be imprisoned and probably lose his sword-hand? My heart tells me to tie you to a tree until you decide not to go, but since there is *no* hope that this will happen, I shall have to use my mind and answer your first question instead. Yes; there is some hope that they will not turn you away. Your arrival will surprise them, and they will realize that you have nothing to gain by turning yourself in, except for the thing you ask for. So they might realize that you are sincere, and, realizing it, decide to be lenient. But I frankly tell you that, if I were one of those Wood-elves, I would not even trust you for half a moment."  
  
I sat in silence for a while, pondering what he had said. "Yet even in the worst case," I began at last, "they cannot take more than a hand; I doubt they will punish me too severely for my flight if I return out of my free will to stand trial. And once this is over, I will be free to go and start anew, somehow... somewhere...."  
  
I would have spoken of these matters less bluntly if I had been aware that Alagant had woken, but I only became aware of it when a small hand suddenly tugged at my sleeve now, accompanied by a rather horrified than accusatory question: "You are going to Mirkwood to let them cut your hand off?"  
  
This summed up my plans quite nicely indeed, and looking down at the little face staring up at me, I could have wept. What was I doing to Alagant? Of him, I had hardly thought, not in this way, at least, believing that he would enjoy the life Mirkwood could offer us, a safe and good life, even convinced that I *had* to take this step for him, for what could he hope for if he spent the rest of his childhood and youth among outlaws, robbers of the dead? I had believed he would be happy about my decision – but thinking about it now, I realized that he had every reason to be very upset with the insane elf who was ready to endanger his ada so much for the faint hope of better days.  
  
It was a good thing that *my* adar was present as well and saved me, for I did not know how to answer.  
  
"Yes, and a brave and noble thing to do it is", my father replied, smiling at his grandson. "It would not be very honourable to run away and hide if you are rightfully accused of a crime. Besides, the elves of Mirkwood will certainly be very impressed with your father's courage, impressed enough to allow us to stay in their forest; and it would be a good place to live. Do you think you would like to live in the woods, Alagant?"  
  
He looked prepared to counter a doubtful answer with wondrous tales of squirrels and woodland birds and Wood-elven magic, but Alagant would not be deterred. "But they will cut off your hand!" he insisted, and the look in his grey eyes made me wish I could tell him he had only dreamt that I harboured any such plans.  
  
Yet, I smiled and answered lightly: "Perhaps.... That is not sure yet. And even if it happens, it will not be too terrible.... If you think about it, very many heroes of the old songs and tales have not got more than one hand, so who knows? I might yet become a hero." I winked at him, but it did not work.  
  
"I do not like Maedhros", Alagant announced with a fierce scowl that might have scared away even the valiant son of Feanor.  
  
"Beren, then?" my father helpfully supplied. "And I believe Lord Othrod, the brave orc who fell at Gondolin, is said to have had only one hand as well!"  
  
Alagant did not look very convinced; I did not blame him for preferring a very unheroic, but more or less intact father.   
  
"Must you really go?" he asked, sounding as miserable as I felt.  
  
"Your grandfather is right that it is the only honourable thing to do", I answered, asking myself what honour lay in making my family and friends most unhappy without dire need, "so while I am not forced to go to Mirkwood, it is still right, unwise as it may seem now. Who would like to lose a hand indeed? Yet, a hand is not too high a price for what may come of this. It would be a very good thing to be allowed to stay in Mirkwood, and you would certainly like it there."  
  
Alagant frowned. "There are only elves in Mirkwood," he remarked. "Perhaps they will not like Uncle Seven there?" At times, he was entirely too quick at spotting possible difficulties.  
  
I nodded. "That may well be true, Alagant – but I doubt that Seven will want to go there, anyway.... Nor will Gwin and Fin, for that matter."  
  
"But we cannot go to Mirkwood then!" Alagant protested, eyes wide. "We cannot just leave them, ada!" With growing unease, and entirely too well aware of the strange and stupid things grown up elves and orcs would do at times, he glanced from me to my father and back. "Have you quarrelled with them? Surely it can be well again? We need not go to Mirkwood; we could go to a place where we all can stay together..."  
  
"We could", I agreed, drawing him close, "but sometimes, hard as it may be, you have to part with people you like very well in order to do what is right."  
  
This had been the wrong thing to say, of course; I could be incredibly stupid at times.  
  
"But we will go to Mirkwood together?" Alagant asked, sounding genuinely alarmed, his hands knotted in the folds of my cloak. "You will not leave all on your own, will you, ada?"  
  
"Never," I promised, holding him more tightly. "And while I may have to go there alone at first to sort things out, I will be back as soon as possible."  
  
"This may come as a shocking revelation, Master Alagant", my father added in a mocking voice, reaching out to ruffle Alagant's hair a little, "but you happen to be this scoundrel's son, and that means that you will not get rid of him quite that easily."  
  
"I do not want to", Alagant said with indignation, snuggling into my cloak more closely and making me feel that in all this glorious mess, at least one thing was still right and good and just as it was supposed to be.  
  
"And it will not happen," I assured him. "We will go to Mirkwood together if the Wood-elves allow us to stay there, and it will be a very exciting time. Would you not like to meet Tanglinna? I know he would like to meet you, so I am certain we will have at least one friend there."  
  
Alagant's fingers were playing with the tail of Glaurung, his toy dragon. "Hm", he said, rather uncertain, and looking up at me, he added: "But Uncle Seven will not be happy."  
  
"What is the boy talking about?"  
  
We all started at the sound of this voice, and I know I went very pale; we should have taken greater care to keep our voices low, for nothing more unfortunate could have happened; I did not want Seven to join our conversation just now, and I might have felt tempted to give an elusive answer had I not known that it would not work – and had not Half-Dead and Well-Armed woken at about the same time, perhaps because of Seven's loud question.  
  
Within an instant, there were three pairs of inquisitive eyes staring at me, and there was no escape, albeit I was not prepared to tell them about my plans, not now, and not like this, at the dead of the night.  
  
"What is he talking about?" Seven repeated, more quietly. "Why should I be unhappy?"  
  
There was no way around explaining the matter; so I found myself replying after the briefest bit of hesitation: "He was commenting on the fact that I have decided to go to Mirkwood. I believe Tanglinna let me go to offer me this choice, between... remaining what I am and going to Mirkwood out of my free will, to change things for the better. So I will go there, accept whatever punishment they choose to level at me for my theft and ask for their permission to stay there... to live there."  
  
For a moment, there was complete silence; then, Well-Armed asked, her face very blank: "You are sure the orcish brandy you drank was not drugged in some way and gave you strange thoughts?"  
  
I hardly heard her words and barely noticed that Half-Dead was shaking his head in bleak astonishment. However, I was entirely too aware of the look on Seven's face, an expression of sheer, unbelieving shock, and for a terrible second, we gazed at each other, feeling as if each of us could read the other's mind and spirit, Seven seeing my determination, my great wish that was more important to me than all good reasons against my choice, while I sensed his displeasure, his disappointment, his anger that I had not told him before – and then, something broke, something that could not be mended, and Seven turned his eyes away.  
  
"I suppose I had better hurry to sell that brooch, then", he remarked, his voice cold as I had never heard it before, not even at the rare times when he had been very upset with me in the past. "You will doubtlessly need your share of it to bribe those Wood-elves into letting you stay?"  
  
I should have answered, but no words would come.  
  
"Now, wait!" Half-Dead began, sounding puzzled, but, as always, inclined to moderation and sensible solutions. "We will talk about this calmly – an argument will not help."  
  
Seven gazed at him, still cold and outwardly calm. "Nor will a quiet conversation." he stated. "He has made his decision, and nothing will change that – so why talk? Trust me; I know him well, or used to do so." With this, he rose and walked away.  
  
It is said that the way disagreements are dealt will tell you more about a friendship than anything else. If that is so, what happened during the following three days does not speak highly of my friendship with Seven; while we continued to travel east, all exchange between us was limited to cold, polite and very unhelpful words from Seven's side and requests to listen to me first and judge me then from mine before I gave up and became very silent.  
  
I told myself that I could, in fact, be grateful, for while he had no sympathy or understanding for me, Seven's anger contained at least a grim sort of acceptance of the inevitable; it was still easier to bear than tears or pleas to reconsider my decision would have been. Yet, it hurt, and I asked myself more than once why I had sacrificed something so precious and irreplaceable for a mere vague hope.  
  
It had been agreed that we – and that, ironically, translated to 'Seven' – would sell the brooch first and share whatever was paid for it. I would return to Mirkwood then, leaving my father and Alagant somewhere safe between here and there; Well-Armed and Half-Dead planned to head for a place where they could stay for a few days and decide in peace what they were going to do now that things had to change for all of us; it was silently assumed that Seven would go with them.  
  
"We might go to Grimsel's inn", Well-Armed had said when we had first spoken about it, "the good man will be glad that we can finally pay him in good money for once.... Or he might miss our stories; who knows?"  
  
Half-Dead had shrugged with a smile, and Seven had contemplated the sky with the expression of an orc who is not concerned at all by the base worries of silly elves.  
  
With the same look on his face, he took Gurshak's cloak clasp from my hands a few days later, promising to be back soon, and turned; only when he had already taken a few steps away from us, he remarked, not gazing back at me: "You might wish to walk a few steps with me, Alagaith."  
  
Somewhat bewildered that he had used my real name, a thing he rarely ever did, I hurried after him. At least, he waited for me to catch up with him before he started walking at a brisker pace. I followed him, but remained silent, well aware that pressuring him would not do any good now; he would begin the conversation when he was prepared to do so, and that could take some time.  
  
We had indeed walked for almost half an hour when he finally spoke. "I thought a few words might be in order before you leave", he remarked, sounding somewhat more like his usual self again.  
  
"They are", I answered, gazing at him. "I am sorry my decision upset you to this extent.... I did not want that."  
  
Seven gave me a strange look, not entirely devoid of pity. "There is a nice, sunny spot down there", he replied as if I had not said anything at all, "perhaps we can sit there and talk for a while."  
  
He had pointed to a sheltered place between hawthorn bushes on a hillside above a small river, and I nodded my consent.  
  
Soon enough, we were seated comfortably next to each other, just like so many times before, enjoying the last sun of late autumn; and for a moment, I wished it could really be as it had always been, not a special day, but a simple, good one, and a quiet, pleasant chat instead of an important conversation, all worries chased away for a brief span of time by the gentle weather and the knowledge that we were all well and had good loot to sell....  
  
But it was not like this, and if I was honest with myself, I did not truly want to pretend that nothing had changed, that I had never met Tanglinna and that no plans had been made.  
  
"I am not upset because of your decision", Seven suddenly said, "I believe I understand what is behind it... or part of it. But you could have told me earlier."  
  
"I was afraid", I replied, sounding more defiant than I wished to.  
  
Seven laughed without much joy. "Were you? I suppose I should be flattered that you fear me more than a whole forest of Wood-elves."  
  
Usually, I might have replied with some witty quip, but I felt too tired to argue with him. "You know what I mean."  
  
For a moment, Seven looked as if he was going to pretend that he did not understand at all, but he, too, was weary, and he merely nodded. "I do."  
  
Again, there was silence, for rather too long a time, and against my will, I found myself wondering why I could not speak as freely and easily, without much reservation or fear, as I had done merely a few days ago, when I had had my strange, long conversation with Mordil. Maybe the brandy had made the difference; or maybe not.  
  
"I should have known that you would wish to... change things one day," Seven finally began, "and perhaps I have known it for a long time and only refused to admit it. First, there was your wife, who was rather too confident that you would be a most respectable warrior again one day. Yes, I will admit that we others laughed a bit at her dreams behind her back – and behind yours, for that matter! – deeming her too innocent, too inexperienced, to understand that you would remain what you were in all eternity... But she was a wise lady, with keener eyes than most have, and she read you well."   
With a sigh, he continued. "Then came the little one, and from then on, it was only a question of time, really. Well-Armed should never have pointed out that this was not the right life for a child – she should have known only too well that you would choose the child over the life at some point.... For it is Alagant, isn't it? You think of a happy elfling sleeping in a warm bed, a whole handful of little Glaurungs sitting on his pillow, a nice, lavish breakfast waiting for him every morning, and lovely embroidered clothes that his elfling friends will admire.... And your heart sings at the thought of standing at the foot of his bed and watching him sleep, knowing that he is safe and has all he needs."  
  
He had spoken without derision, only with soft melancholy, and slowly, I nodded, believing to know what saddened him so; even if Alagant got all that, and more, Seven would not be there to see him enjoy it, and he loved my son dearly. But when I moved to reply something, Seven lifted his hand in a gesture that might have seemed unobtrusive, even meaningless, to most elves; any orc, however, would have known that he was elegantly asked to rest silent for yet a while.  
  
"Then, but few years ago, your noble father arrived, still so honest that it could hurt at times – no, do not gainsay me! I saw a change in you then, and while I believed that it was just new happiness, old fears and guilt lifted from your heart, I should have seen that he also brought entirely too many old memories with him.... Not the sort of memory that goes 'Oh, do you remember how, one evening, Eliant got drunk and bold and kissed Lady Loth?', but the deeper, more important sort, notions of honour and a good life and cherished, if unspoken rules....  
  
And with your mind so prepared, enter this Mirkwood archer, with kind words, offering you false hopes and...."  
  
"He was not 'offering false hopes'." I interrupted, almost dismayed at my own fierceness. "He meant what he said, and there is yet hope!" Somewhat more gently, I continued: "I know it will not be easy.... Not easy at all, to be precise, probably a very dark and hard and unhappy time – but it will end one day, and then...."  
  
"And then, you will wake up and see what a fool you have been." Seven brusquely replied.  
  
He could have said worse things, and people, if not he, had called me worse things, in fact; yet, his words were hurtful. "Do not call my wish foolish because you do not share it!" I snapped.  
  
Seven shrugged. "Whether your wish is foolish in itself is a question I cannot answer – that is your decision to make. I only know that what you plan to do is the greatest folly you have ever even thought of, worse even than your brilliant idea to stay behind alone that day in Mithlond when...."  
  
"This is of no importance whatsoever now!"  
  
"Agreed; and your current folly offers enough to talk about. I see that you want that charge dealt with, and honourably, before things change. I will concede that this is wise. So – although this is no advice I give you happily – go to Mirkwood and your trial; but afterwards, whether they have taken your hand or not, leave again."  
  
Seven's voice had grown strangely urgent, and he had turned to look at me, placing both hands upon my shoulders as if talking to some reluctant youngling who would not understand what was good for him. "Leave again, and go to another place where elves dwell, Rivendell, the Havens.... It will be a clean beginning there. Forget about Mirkwood."  
  
This was frighteningly logical and sensible; why did I not go elsewhere indeed, some place where no one knew about the darkest sides of my past, so that I could really start anew, only meeting the initial mild distrust every stranger has to expect, but no contempt and hatred? Even fear that word of what I had been might reach those elves was not a real argument against Seven's counsel; there was at least hope that, by then, I would have won enough respect to let them think twice about chasing me away again. No – what Seven advised me to do was the thing a wise elf would have done, yet not what I wished to do.  
  
"It has to be Mirkwood", I replied, holding Seven's gaze and hoping that he would be able to comprehend what I was trying to explain, "for following your suggestion would mean to start this new life with at least half a lie.  
  
I admit I do not know if I would find the courage to tell strangers that they would be accepting a thief into their community if I knew that things would be much easier and nicer if I allowed them to assume that we were merely poor, but harmless stranger searching for a new place to live after the recent loss of a former home.... I would probably leave out rather too many details when asked for my story.  
  
And later, I would hate myself for this implicit lie, knowing very well that *I* would never have been allowed to stay.... I could not allow any close friendship, for fear to reveal too much, and could not even enjoy an offer of trust and friendship made, for it would not be directed at me, but at some imaginary elf bearing my face and my name. What kind of life would that be?  
  
'A clean beginning', you say.... It will only be a clean beginning in Mirkwood, where they know very well who I am, *what*I am. If they allow me to stay in spite of that, there will be real hope, and a real new life!"  
  
Seven removed his hands and turned away, his eyes traveling over the distant hills, but finally choosing to follow the flight of a heron rising from the meadows near the river. "A new life indeed", he said with some bitterness, "but what kind of life will it be? I cannot make your decision for you, that is true – but I can and do advise you to think a little about what you will gain and what price you will pay."  
  
"Your friendship would be too high a price", I said, hanging my head and feeling more torn than ever.  
  
Seven smiled. "You will not lose my friendship", he replied. "Even if I have a feeling that we will not meet again too often if your decision is made in favor of Mirkwood, I shall always think of you with great fondness. No – that should not worry you. Think of yourself now. A warm bed is good, so are decent clothes and regular meals – and you may obtain all of that, but you will pay dearly for it. You will be the price."  
  
I looked at him somewhat incredulously, not quite able to follow his line of thought.  
  
Seven shook his head. "You foolish elf!" he murmured. "You think there will be a few years of distrust and hardship, but that they will eventually see what a good elf you are, patiently listen to the moving story of how much you have been wronged earlier and gladly embrace you, allowing you to be again what you once were? That will not happen.  
  
I do not doubt that they will allow you to stay – but they will request proof that you are willing to become honest, 'honest' meaning humble and willing to live according to their rules and wishes. Perhaps they will not even cut off your hand, but you will certainly find yourself scrubbing the floor of their king's Hall on your very knees for the next few hundred years, if that is not even considered too good for you, and later, you will have to be grateful if you are as much as a somewhat better servant. You will be forced to be meek and docile all the time, to prove that you are making an effort, and you will always remain 'the thief', regardless of what you do."  
  
"Do you think I am too weak to endure that?" I enquired, admitting to myself that my friend was probably very right, and meaning my words as a real question; he knew me well.  
  
"Endure it you will", Seven answered with a sad smile, "but after a time, you will not be quite yourself any more, and it saddens me to imagine this proud head bent in a mild sort of servitude, for I know that you will not be rewarded much for it. You will be fed and clad, but that will be about all – and is that really worth so great a sacrifice?"  
  
"At least Alagant will have all he needs", I said, trying to balance the dismal picture Seven had painted with the kinder one that had entered both our minds earlier, of Alagant surrounded by all the things I had never really been able to provide him with.  
  
"Maybe," Seven replied, "but he does not exactly need a broken father."  
  
I stared.  
  
"I have seen it happen," my friend softly continued, "the mines were a dark place even to me, but they were also the very best place in Arda for studying elves, sad as what I learnt there may have been. I have seen elves as proud and bright as you turn into meek slaves, faint shadows of living creatures, and in entirely too short a time. I do not want you to end like that."  
  
"Mirkwood is hardly comparable to the Mines of Angband!" I snorted, feeling that he was really a bit too worried now.  
  
Seven studied me with a strange expression. "Trust me, it is.... Only that it will be much worse a place for you. Have you ever asked yourself why some elves were resilient enough to emerge from the mines battered and beaten, affected by what they had been through both in body and mind, yet not broken? Think of your father and Half-Dead! What did they do once they were free again?"  
  
"They returned home?" I answered, frowning, not really sure what he was trying to tell me.  
  
Seven nodded. "They returned home indeed; that was what they had wished for during even the darkest times.... Do you not understand? They had a place to call home far away from that darkness, loved once waiting for them elsewhere, and – thank the Mighty Ones! – not forced to witness their ordeal... But your home and the place of your torments will be one, and you will not be able to protect Alagant from seeing you dwindle away in humiliation. You will wish to be free again, but will not dare to leave, even if they let you, clinging to the faint hope that all your efforts cannot have been in vain, that, one day, that bright future you dream of will be there.... Only that it will never happen."  
  
Each word had been like a slap in the face, or worse, but Seven was not finished yet.  
  
"Be honest with yourself, at least!" he continued. "In truth, you do not dream of feather beds, hot baths and a quiet life, and probably not even of fancy clothes, at least, not more so than others.  
  
If you talk about being honorable once again, you mean that quite literally. It is *honor* you secretly hope for – you would like to be what you were at Nargothrond, or something even better, an important captain, a sword master, a war counselor, and you dream of people of importance listening to your sage advice, of guards jumping to attention when you pass, of overhearing an impressed dozen of younglings discuss how incredible it was when Master Alagaith easily defeated a certain fabled swordsman in a mock duel two days ago, of people trusting you, of respect for your wit and skills and knowledge and ultimately for yourself...,  
  
And *that*, you will never get, not in Mirkwood. You will be lucky enough if they allow you to keep your sword at all.  
  
Do not tell me now that, even if you remain a lowly former thief for all your life, Alagant will get all that trust and respect and honor one day, and that you will be proud and happy enough then! You will already be proud if they will stop calling him 'the thief's son' openly after a couple of years – but do not hope that they will ever forget to think it when looking at him. They will not.  
  
So what will be harder – to forget mentioning that you were a thief once to some kind elves who will see your true worth at some point and will let you become what you wish to be after a couple of years, or to be honest for honesty's sake with those Wood-elves and end up forcing yourself to live a life that is none, sacrificing all that you are and could be under better circumstances?"  
  
I could not recall that Seven had ever made a speech of such length before, not ever since I had met him long ago, and I did not quite know what to say or even to think. I had known that all of this would not be easy, but I had not foreseen that even talking about it would be so painful.  
  
Seven did not seem to expect an answer; having said what he had to say, he rose, patting my shoulder. "I am going to sell this brooch now", he announced, "and you had better either stay here or go back to the others, for if I arrive with an elf in tow, I will not be overly successful in my attempt. Think about what I said – perhaps it is more than just an orc's silliness." With that, he turned and was gone before I could think of a reply.  
  
I remained sitting where he had left me for over an hour, staring down at the river. Seven was right, very right – I would not be much more than a slave in Mirkwood, put to base and boring work for long years, or maybe forever. What could I hope for indeed?  
  
I would not regain what I had lost, that was true, and I was probably a fool if I believed that Mirkwood would ever become anything comparable to a real home to me. I was exchanging one hardship for another, and I would not have any good friends to share those worries with me, only Mordil, perhaps, but he would hardly appreciate complaints and much whining. A skulking cutpurse who decided that he wished to be honest again deserved a hard time, after all, and a *long* hard time if he was already branded and still on his thieving ways after two ages....  
  
And suddenly, I laughed, deciding that the whole situation was not only tight and somewhat sad, but also gloriously absurd.  
  
Here I was, having made the find of a lifetime with that precious brooch, sure enough that what would be paid for it could buy me pleasant times, if not a whole new life, and while I would get away with that theft, I had nothing better to do than to run to Mirkwood to let myself be punished for the noble wish to be an honest elf again....  
  
Was it not most peculiar that the wicked thief might have remained unpunished had he not decided to discontinue this vile sort of life? I would be able to write a nice, moralizing tale with a twist out of that one day, given that they left me enough free time to write but a single page, and a hand to write with.... At least, Alagant and I would have something to laugh about when thinking of this irony, and as long as there would be a shared moment of laughter now and then, I would not be fully unhappy.  
  
Seven had spoken of Gwindor and my father and their time in the mines; and while I did not think I could claim to have Gwindor's valiance and endurance, I knew that I was my father's son, at least now and then. I would give those Wood-elves two years and three weeks, the time my father had spent in the mines of Angband without changing overly much. If, after two years, there was no sign at all that Mirkwood's good and righteous elves were ready to see past the thief, I would be gone again, unless Alagant had grown very fond of the place by that time and wished to stay.  
  
I smiled to myself; two years were two years, not a short time if spent in less than fortunate circumstances, but a limited span of time nonetheless; it would pass. They would hardly keep me caged all the time, and there would be a chance to leave if things truly proved to be as terrible as Seven suspected they would be.  
  
I probed this new thought, finding it quite satisfying; deciding for myself to go to Mirkwood for two years and to make a definite choice then seemed less daunting than going without any plans for the case that things went awry.  
  
The others would have been glad to learn about this change of plans, but although it might have reassured them a little, I resolved not to tell them about it. This may seem dishonest, even cruel, and I did not make the decision lightly, but I knew that any mention of great doubt on my part would have incited them to search for new arguments to deter me completely, and I could really do without yet another round of well-meant, but unwanted advice.  
  
I kept my secret, even when Seven returned two days later with a well-filled purse and the hour of parting came, with all reluctance, hugs, good wishes and tears that come with bidding people you have lived with and like farewell. Of course, we promised most solemnly to send a letter to Grimsel's Inn as soon as the outcome of my Mirkwood adventure could be predicted, and of course, they promised to write back to tell us how they were faring and what kind of plans they were making, but we all knew how difficult it was to find reliable and fast messengers; if we were lucky, we would hear from each other every year, if not only every few years, from now on.  
  
And then, it was over, the last hand raised in farewell having disappeared between distant trees, the last glimpse of familiar cloaks gone from sight, and we were alone and free to travel to Mirkwood.  
  
We did not head west straightaway, though; provisions and various useful things had to be bought to enable Alagant and my father to get over the winter, wherever they would spend it; I doubted I would be with them. As I would hardly create a favourable impression when I arrived in Mirkwood dressed in Gurshak's flamboyant attire, I also had to obtain some sober, unpretentious clothes.   
Those days we spent travelling around human villages and small towns, both to find what we needed and – although this thought remained unspoken – to enjoy what was probably the last agreeable time we would have together for long months, were oddly unreal.  
  
It was strange to be lingering between two lives, and it took me long to let the naked knowledge that Seven, Half-Dead and Well-Armed were truly gone and would not rejoin us become a truth that I could feel and sense and live with. I did regret what I had destroyed, even if I tried to think and speak of the great hope attached to the step I had taken.  
  
Alagant was rather too silent during the first days, and the way he talked to Glaurung under his breath, played with the carving knife Half-Dead had given him without actually using it and stared into the flames of the low fires we would light in the evenings told me that he was not exactly happy with the disruption of what had been the family he had known until then.  
  
The fifth evening, I thought it appropriate to give him one of those earnest looks that usually precede the administration of some parental wisdom and told him that there was an important lesson to be learnt from our current situation. "Changes can be hard to bear", I told him, "but that they bring unhappiness at first does not mean that what will come of them will be bad, and if we refuse to acknowledge that, merely clinging to memories of what was once, we may fail to see new good things that must be enjoyed."  
  
I felt these were very wise and sensible words, but, as it is always the case with such sayings, they were spoken in vain. My son only frowned – an expression that made him look entirely too much like his grandfather – and declared: "You miss Uncle Seven as well."  
  
Admittedly, there was nothing to add to that statement.  
  
"Your ada is right, though, Alagant", my father calmly remarked, "there is already a good thing that can be enjoyed. Your Aunt Fin is not here, and due to this, she cannot appropriate dinner's last baked apple by any means."  
  
Even this very practical reasoning only provoked the faintest of smiles, and I suspected that Alagant would readily have shared that last apple with Finduilas or given it to her entirely if the others had only been there.  
  
This conversation was not the last of the kind that we had, and truly happy moments were scarce all the time. I tried to console myself with the thought that Alagant would find much joy in what we would have in Mirkwood; even the meagre part of the forest's wealth and safety that might be granted to us would still seem fantastic to him. However, even all those new and lovely things would not bring back his lost 'aunt' and 'uncles', and nothing would bring back us to them; I was certain that Seven was sitting in Grimsel's Inn with a very sad face, and when those thoughts occurred to me, I felt like a terrible friend and a bad father. Perhaps I would deserve it, after all, if the Wood-elves cut off my hand.  
  
A few weeks before Yule, we came to the place where Laketown had been, and found an excellent hiding place near the shore. Alagant was rather disappointed that it was winter and therefore quite impossible to spot the remains of the fallen dragon in the water. Telling me that this was really most unfortunate and that Glaurung would have loved to see the dead dragon as well, although it was actually sad that the dragon was dead and in the lake now, for a real, living dragon would have been much more interesting, he sounded very much like his old self again, and I smiled and silently thanked Smaug the Golden for having cheered up my son a little.  
  
When we sat and talked about the dragon, Alagant all caught up in what was one of his favourite subjects, I merely glad that I should be given some good time of seeing the eyes of my child gleam with excitement and listening to his chatter about dragons and wondrous adventures before I had to depart, my father had already ventured into the camp that housed the former inhabitants of Laketown, planning to learn if it would be possible to stay there for the winter. We had agreed that I should not accompany him; it was entirely possible that elves of Mirkwood who knew too well who I was were in the camp, and an arrest just now would have ruined any plans of nobly turning myself in and showing goodwill.  
  
My father did not return for hours, longer than I had thought he would stay away, and I was close to getting worried when we learnt what had kept him away, or, more precisely, when someone I had not heard approach dropped a bottle of orcish brandy into my lap. I did not have to turn to know who had arrived; the look of sheer delight that entered Alagant's face as he interrupted his ramble on Smaug and jumped to his feet told me all I had to know.  
  
Do not believe those old stories about orcs being loud and brutish and unable to move with the silence we elves take such pride in! Orcs are very aware that noise will scare the enemy in battle, and they put this knowledge to good use in need; but if they do not want to be heard, not even an elf's well-schooled ears can detect them easily. I did not know how many times Seven had suddenly appeared behind me quite unexpectedly, scaring me halfway out of my wits; but then, I was sure that he was equally unable to count the times I had taken revenge on him in the same manner.  
  
"Master Grimsel sends you this", he now said, returning Alagant's fierce hug and not allowing the boy to escape his arms for a while, "says to tell you that you are insane to go to Mirkwood and, in case you insist on becoming honest, offers you permanent employment in his inn as he does not know anybody else who can chop wood quite that accurately; I hope you do not mind that I politely declined in your name."  
  
I laughed, but not at the innkeeper's gracious offer or anything else, but with relief and a sudden feeling of bewildered contentment. Seven was there, he was *with* us.... I had not lost him and his friendship when I had made my decision. Perhaps what had been broken earlier was not as un-mendable as I had believed at first.  
  
"As I see, you did not offer him to stay and take my place", I lightly replied, wishing, in fact, to cling to him just as fiercely as Alagant still did, "you see me surprised! Since when are you here?"  
  
"Oh, we came to Laketown, or what will be Laketown again, yesterday", Seven replied, sitting down next to me, leaving room for Alagant to squeeze himself and Glaurung between us.  
  
"That means Uncle Gwin and Auntie Fin are there as well?" my son exclaimed, smiling widely when Seven nodded in confirmation.  
  
"Meaning to stay here", he said, adding with a wink at me: "It appears you will have a place to run off to if those wood-elves prove to be too insufferable."  
  
"You mean to stay in Laketown, to *live* there?" I enquired quite incredulously, unable to trust my ears, although the idea made some sense in itself; in this city of merchants, people, used to dealing both with orcs and elves, would frown less at people of both races living under one roof than elsewhere.  
  
Seven nodded gravely, smiling at the happy little noise from Alagant's side that greeted this announcement. "The first day after we had left you, we cursed your silly plans and what they had brought about", he explained, "the second day, we arrived at Grimsel's Inn, and the first thing he asked was: 'Where have you left your one-eyed friend and that sweet elfling of his?' The third day, we glanced at each other and admitted that, maybe, we missed you, and that.... Well, never mind! The fourth day, Well-Armed said: 'We should travel to Laketown, or what is left of it; it is close to Mirkwood, and they will not ask many questions about who and what we are now that they need every hand offering help for the rebuilding of their city.' The fifth day, we departed from Grimsel's Inn again, why you were still running around, asking yourself if a blue or a grey cloak would flatter your complexion more, if I have understood your father correctly."  
  
"You must admit that I chose well", I said with a chuckle, touching the soft blue cloth of the cloak, feeling very happy and content.  
  
"It could look worse", my charming friend assured me, grinning at Alagant, and for the following quarter of an hour, they amused themselves discussing my cloak and the rest of my clothing at length, with the loving malevolence only family members or very close friends are capable of, and caring very little that I wanted to ask Seven quite a lot of questions.  
  
Part of the answers I had been hoping for were provided without my asking when my father returned, Half-Dead and Well-Armed in tow. Apparently, they had managed to receive permission to build a makeshift hut in the camp to spend the winter in, against promising some help with the rebuilding of the town in spring. It was good to know that they would be in a comparatively safe and sheltered place during the cold months.  
  
There was less pleasant news as well, though.  
  
"Did you not mention a certain Tanglinna, Master Archer of King Thranduil?" Half-Dead asked after greetings had been exchanged.  
  
At my nod, Well-Armed took up the thread, beginning, not without a faint hint of irony: "If you hoped for his help and support in your great endeavour, we must disappoint you – the whole camp is swarming with rumours of his great and terrible crimes and his being thrown in the Wood-elf-king's dungeons."  
  
"Great and terrible crimes'?" I repeated, hoping that these words had been employed in jest, but almost fearing that this was not the case; it was not uncommon that a petty offence suddenly turned into a horrible crime in the eyes of a foul-tempered judge. I had not assumed that they would not punish poor Mordil at all for his kindness, but I had dared hope that they would be lenient at least, seeing that what he had done had not caused much harm to anybody....  
  
"Be calm!" Well-Armed said with a chuckle. "Releasing you was clearly the least of his crimes, though 'letting a dangerous prisoner escape' sounds very impressive.... But there were other, even more impressive things, insulting the king and conspiring against him with someone known as 'The Tricksy Trio' – what a strange name for a group of conspirators! But then, they did not seem to take that conspiracy very seriously, so I suppose it is all some sort of joke or jest we cannot understand just now."  
  
"There was also something about disrespectful behaviour in general", Half-Dead added, "and a very mysterious story about appropriating and throwing away a crown that I did not quite understand.... Fairly impressive, as Faelivrin has already stated."  
  
"Impressive indeed!" I said, shaking my head and quite unable to help feeling some amusement. I could hardly believe that respectable, respected Mordil would ever have done any of the things the rumours were so merrily accusing him of, but the very thought of his being imprisoned for a real crime, not only for his generosity towards me, was strangely entertaining – only for a moment, though, for Well-Armed's next words made my sudden mirth die again.  
  
"In any case", she continued, "they say that he has been cast in the dungeon, and it did not sound to me as if it was anything close to the honourable imprisonment you might expect for a warrior of high standing who has been somewhat foolish.... They speak of fairly dire conditions, no visitors being allowed to see him, and no one knowing for how long he will be kept down there... Estimates are between three weeks and a few decades at present."  
  
This did not sound funny at all any more, and my decision was quickly made. "*He* will know for how long a time they are keeping him there", I said, rising to my feet. "I will ask him, and if it is for three weeks, I shall quietly leave again and return to turn myself in; if it is for 'a few decades', he might be grateful not to be left there helpless."  
  
Well-Armed's elegant brows rose. "Surely, you do not mean to go and free him if it should be necessary?"  
  
"That could only go wrong!" Seven stated.  
  
"It 'could only go wrong'?" I enquired, discovering that I was echoing the words of my interlocutors far too often this day. "What do you mean by that?"  
  
"Mithlond!" the lady kindly supplied in a singsong voice ere my friend could answer.  
  
"Oh yes", Half-Dead said, sadly shaking his head. "You have never been very... fortunate when it came to freeing imprisoned friends."  
  
"I did get you out of that cell!" I snapped, slightly offended that he made it sound as if the adventure he was alluding to had been a complete failure.  
  
"And liked it so well that you ended up spending the next three years in it", Seven replied with a sigh. "Now, One-Eye... You should decide what you want. If being 'honest' and getting rid of all charges is really that important, going to Mirkwood to try and free someone who is, perhaps, justly imprisoned, is certainly not the right way."  
  
He was right yet again, but this time, answering was easy, and although the situation had actually worsened quite a bit with Tanglinna's imprisonment, things seemed easier now.  
  
"I will do what is right, or what seems right and decent to me now", I replied, "and while I will gladly try not to break any laws if it is not necessary, I will not refuse Mordil my help, regardless of what that might mean... Those rumours were probably exaggerating things anyway. I will go and see for myself what is true about what is said, and then make a definite decision." Remembering my last conversation with Tanglinna, I picked up the brandy bottle Grimsel had sent me and added, grinning a little: "Who knows? It may all be harmless, and I will just bring him a bottle of brandy and leave again in silence."   
"Well spoken!" my father said with a chuckle, and, after the slightest moment of hesitation, he asked: "You are planning to leave now?"  
  
Forcing myself not to think about it twice, I nodded; now was as good a time as any.  
  
I was still worried and unsure of what was to come; yet, leaving the others felt less painful now that I knew they would be waiting for me here, still my friends and ready to take me back at any time. Saying farewell to Alagant was hardest, as he even less happy with having to remain behind than I was with having to leave him for probably more than a handful of days.  
  
"Can't I go with you?" he asked, and even Glaurung, slumped over his arm, seemed to give me a look of disappointment and reproach, but I shook my head.  
  
The one time I had gloriously managed to get myself caught – and for the ridiculous crime of abducting one pumpkin from a cart full of them! – when Alagant had been with me, we had spent two fairly unpleasant days in a cell, culminating in the very worst minutes I had lived through in a long time, and while I did not believe that the wood-elves would be just as cruel as our captors who had thought it a brilliant idea to make my son watch the whipping I had received for my terribly wicked deed, I did not want anything remotely similar ever to happen again.  
  
Apart from that, I also did not want the wood-elves to believe that I was using my child to rouse their pity. No, Alagant would stay where he was, hopefully well protected from whatever would happen in Mirkwood, and it was a good thing that all those he called his family were present to look after him. ~*~*~*~*~*  
  
TBC 


	11. Epilogue The Second Prologue

"Shall we start then, Mordil?" Alagaith asks with a merry grin as he moves to pour some mint tea for the hard-working elves that have to answer the reviews. "For one last time?"  
  
Tanglinna returns the grin. "Obviously, you cannot see far ahead of you, Linlote!" he replies enigmatically and winks.  
  
This is answered by a dry chuckle. "I don't even dare!"  
  
The Master Archer grins yet again. "Well, someone wanted to see you tormented by your haunted past...." he announces. "The Time Has Come, O Linlote. Beware...."  
  
At this point, his grin turns into laughter that is quickly stifled when a third voice suddenly pipes up: "What do you mean by that, Master Tanglinna?" This question is accompanied by a rather worried look out of huge grey eyes glancing up at the Silvan.  
  
Tanglinna smiles reassuringly at the elfling. "Nothing at all whatsoever. It is nothing for you to worry about. It was only that we needed a story where your daerada and I got to be the heroes instead of your ada."  
  
This provokes yet another chuckle from the elfling's father. "Nicely put, Mordil." Alagaith says with a glance at his son. "You see, Alagant, it is only Master Tanglinna's vanity that is responsible for everything...." Here, a wink is exchanged between the old and the young Noldo, and Alagant is still chuckling a little when he turns to survey the peacocky archer.  
  
Tanglinna bites his tongue, swallowing an appropriate reply, for they must behave now that Alagant has arrived. "Yes, it is most ... convenient to blame Master Tanglinna's vanity for many things that transpire," he says, shooting a glare at Alagaith before he smiles kindly at Alagant, who returns the smile, quite unaware that his ada's joke has not been too kindly received – or already too much of a Noldorin diplomat to show that he has realized this.  
  
"May I print out the reviews, Master Tanglinna?" he politely asks. "My ada says I must ask you, because the printer likes you best."  
  
"You may most certainly print them out." Tanglinna replies. "I suspect that the printer's allegiance to me will be transferred to you immediately. I think it prefers nice young elflings like yourself best." With a smile, he adds: "But, if it gives you any trouble at all, just take Ptath's advice and wave a screwdriver at it. That might work."  
  
This suggestion brings a grin that is entirely too typical of the elder members of a certain family of Noldor to Alagant's innocent young face. "And if that does not work, may I use the screwdriver then?"  
  
Alagaith shakes his head immediately. "No, Alagant.... That is not a good idea. Master Tanglinna would be most unhappy if his dear friend the printer was... damaged in the process." He winks at 'Mordil'. "And, as Dis Thrainsdotter remarks, he is already 'poor Tanglinna', so we must be nice to him."  
  
This seems to convince Alagant; he gives a quick nod before he moves to approach the printer, looking rather pleased to be the one to carry out such an important and difficult task and too preoccupied with it to notice that the two grown-up elves exchange a grin.  
  
Having watched the terrible fights the adult elves have had with this veritable monster of Angband, Alagant takes no chances – he gently talks to the machine, stroking it ever so softly as he pushes the PRINT button - and, for once, the wicked printer seems to behave! A smile, as proud as delighted, comes to Alagant's face, and it even widens when he hears Tanglinna's comment:  
  
"Very well done! What did I tell you! It obviously likes you best for it has never worked so quickly and wonderfully for either your ada or for me. Wonderful job, Alagant!" He smiles at the child joyfully.  
  
Alagant smiles back happily, but taking the pages from the printer, his expression grows serious once again. "The reviews, Master Tanglinna!" he announces with much ceremony and bows like a Noldorin lord handing his king an important document.  
  
Alagaith watches the scene with a smile that seems almost nostalgic, heavy with memories of the court of Nargothrond, at first, but quickly grows very amused when Tanglinna bows as well, not like a Noldorin lord, but merely like a Silvan versed in the court etiquette of his king.  
  
"We must start with kingmaker as always," the Master Archer announces. "I do not want to break with tradition now. Huzzah to your review, young sir!" He grins and laughs a bit. "I fear that your mention of Gurshak drowning," – he flashes a quick look at Alagant before continuing - "himself in woe, suddenly put a picture in my head of him doing said act in a vat of perfume...rather reminiscent of one poor Duke of Clarence in your own history...only with Malmsey and not perfume." Here, his grin turns in one of wicked delight at the image of Gurshak going to his fate smelling... rather strong – this would truly be a 'Dream of Rhovanion', not a 'Nightmare of Mirkwood'!  
  
"Dorwinion might be easier to come by in these parts than Malmsey..." Alagaith muses aloud, looking as if he wonders how Thranduil and his valiant butler might react to the unexpected discovery of a drowned goblin in the wine cellar of Gladaran Thamas. "But.... You are aware, Mordil, that Clarence was the son-in-law or Warwick, and you are also aware whom we are talking to, yes...? So are you implying that Gurshak...?"  
  
Tanglinna glares a bit at Alagaith, and it is hard to tell whether he is upset by these most impudent suggestion or by the fact that the impact of his most erudite discourse got spoiled a bit by the silliness of someone who has apparently yet to learn how to put his historical knowledge to good use.  
  
"I know who George of Clarence was and whom he was married to and whose daughter she was, yes, but I was not meaning to get into all this tangled ancient history, Linlote," he replies with dignity. "I am not entirely certain which side young kingmaker lands on - Lancaster or York, so perhaps we had better leave it at that....Warwick was known for taking both sides of the question, after all, and Tree is decidedly on ONE side and not the other."  
  
He clears his throat a bit before he begins anew: "Lutris was quite right. You were very brave to come to Mirkwood, Linlote. Your decision must have been a most difficult one to make."  
  
Alagaith smiles a bit. "It was not easy, no..." he admits, casting a brief glance at Alagant. "But as you already said, one must decide which side to take at some point, what really matters... And although the evil witch queen claims that it is very clear where I belong, that may have changed since." Still smiling, he raises his eye to look at Tanglinna.  
  
"Life is filled with constant changes, Linlote", the archer wisely replies. "Let us hope this one is a change for the better for all concerned. I think daw the minstrel might agree with the evil witch queen though. Sometimes certain decisions don't always look like the right thing to do at the time, since it is much easier to not change anything."  
  
"Yes...." Alagaith agrees with a sigh. "It is much easier .... But not necessarily better."  
  
At this point, Alagant feels he has to comment as well. "But Miss Aranel and Little One are right!" he exclaims before he turns to smile and wave at his pen-friend. "Changing everything was NOT good at first. And it might have been better at Rivendell... But" – here, he grins at Little One – "in Mirkwood, we have squirrels! And spiders! And Master Tanglinna!"  
  
Having listed these impressive attractions of Thranduil's realm, he falls silent, confident that this is more than enough to match 'puppets and ducks and Glorfindel'.  
  
Alagaith smiles. "Yes, 'and Master Tanglinna'", he repeats. "Phoenix Flight is very right that this is about Linlote visiting Mordil, to a certain degree." He winks at Mordil, receiving a chuckle in return.  
  
"It is good to know that I am in that list of ... interesting things in Mirkwood...along with squirrels and spiders." the 'interesting' Master Archer says, grinning and ruffling Alagant's hair a bit. "I agree with Ptath, Linlote. My 'knight in slightly stained armour was on his way to rescue me...again. It is a very good thing that you did decide to come to Mirkwood...." Glancing at the chapter, he frowns. "Well, I believe it was a good thing...." He does not sound entirely convinced, though, and he shakes his head with a strange expression that conveys some bemusement... or disbelief?  
  
Alagaith laughs a bit at that. "'Rescue' you indeed.... I got you further into trouble, that is everything.... But, as Dis Thrainsdotter observes, I was worried for you.... I could not know that my arrival.... Well - it will be told soon enough." He glances at the chapter. "Now be a good elf and don't forget to tell wellduh... when the chapter starts!"  
  
Tanglinna grins. "Never fear! I will! wellduh thought our last chapter was brilliant and I would do anything she wished!" He throws a kiss to wellduh, looking slightly peacocky once again. "And the last - can I say that, Linlote?"- he winks - "chapter begins....NOW!" With a grand gesture, he points below where it reads:  
  
Epilogue – The Second Prologue  
  
But - - - the chapter does not start yet, for suddenly, Tanglinna seems to hesitate. "...Epilogue - The Second Prologue," he murmurs with a grin. "That is rather confusing!"  
  
"Perhaps a few words of explanation are in order, Mordil?" Alagaith suggests, grinning back.  
  
Tanglinna laughs. "Very well, explain to us what this new devilry is!" he answers with a smirk, obviously pleased to have won this small verbal battle.  
  
Alagaith smiles ever so innocently. "'Devilry', Mordil? Very well - as we are sitting here together quite peacefully, it should be obvious that I was not thrown out of Mirkwood again post-haste.... So there is yet a tale to tell, and it is too long to fit in the last chapter of this story."  
  
"We have never hesitated to write chapter in excess of thirty pages before, Linlote. Why this sudden reticence?" Tanglinna asks, still grinning, but then, he continues: "Very true. There was a much longer tale in here than we realized. One does not simply waltz into Mirkwood unannounced, and be welcomed with open arms by everyone - everyone knowing that said person has a ... questionable past. Of course there is more to this tale than meets the eye."  
  
Alagaith smiles a bit. "No, one should never underestimate a 'questionable past' - it might come back one day and destroy the bright and hopeful future one could have hoped for..." He sighs long-sufferingly before he adds: "What else is to be said? Oh - you get to be the hero, of course!"  
  
"With a lot of help from the growing pack of...Noldor that reside in Mirkwood now." Tanglinna reminds him. "Is that a sufficient explanation for this anomaly?"  
  
The Skulking Cutpurse nods. "I think it is, Mordil."  
  
"Very well then...wellduh, I apologize", the Silver Peacock says. "The chapter really begins now where it reads "Epilogue - The Second Prologue. Is that not right, Alagant?"  
  
Alagant nods with a grin. "Yes, right there!" he agrees as he points at the real beginning of the chapter quite merrily.  
  
"Wait, wait!" Alagaith suddenly calls, pointing at the screen. "There is something we have forgotten... Something important!" He smiles at Ubiquitous Pitt - roguishly, of course, just to indulge her. "We may not forget to answer to these two fine reviews here!"  
  
Tanglinna grins and chuckles at this. "Yes, we cannot forget her. One moment though, Linlote." He tosses his lovely silver hair just for UbiquitousPitt, and shoots her a come hither look before grinning again. "Now perhaps she will invite me to, ahem, 'hot, illicit, steaming...tea??' Perhaps I need only learn to employ my Noldorin charm and that will work."  
  
"Perhaps she will invite both of us?" Alagaith muses - but does not continue when a little voice pipes up: "Hot tea might be good! I think she offers it because she believes that Master Tanglinna is so 'chilled' - why would she think that, Master Tanglinna?" The elfling's look accompanying this question is as curious as innocent.  
  
"I do not know why she would say that, Alagant." Tanglinna replies. "I am not a 'chilled' person at all, am I?" He grins at Linlote before he gazes at the red-haired vixen, lifting one brow in question.  
  
Alagaith returns the grin. "Now, we need not discuss this now, Mordil.... But, please, talk her out of hiring Gurshak as her caterer for her wedding! That does NOT sound like a good plan to me!"  
  
The Master Archer shakes his head. "No, I do not understand that one myself. Though I suspect she might hire him to design her wedding clothes instead. You might agree even with that." He winks. "I am wondering what Erestor might make of all this."  
  
Alagaith chuckles. "Perhaps we should ask him.... But while we do so, we can already let our readers have the chapter, can't we?"  
  
Tanglinna nods. "I believe we can. Oh yes. One moment. UbiquitousPitt, Tree has not forgotten the story about Aralas." Again, he grins a little. "It will be told in our next tale. Now, the real chapter may begin. Yes, there it is, wellduh!"  
  
Epilogue - The Second Prologue  
  
This was how it had come to pass that I was standing in front of a paint- splattered, but obviously happy Silver Peacock now, entirely too aware that there were thick walls and a very solid door between this narrow space and the freedom that I claimed to be so willing to give up, at least for a time. I could still leave now, of course, as long as the gruff guard who had led me in did not grow overly suspicious; yet, it had started, and when I let my eye travel along the walls of the cell, it was not only to convince myself that Mordil could have been cast in much worse a hole or to admire his beautiful paintings, as I had promised to do some day when we had last talked.  
  
Tanglinna, hardly harbouring any of the worries that flitted through my mind, gazed at me, a smile playing about his lips. "You are insane! Totally insane!" Slowly, his smile turned into a grin and then a laugh, as amused as delighted, as he bent to retrieve the fallen brush. "What are you doing here?"  
  
Unable to laugh and share his mirth, I tried to smile at least. He was very right; I was insane, more insane even than he could know... Suddenly, it seemed less easy, even less commendable, to reveal my grand and indeed insane plans then and there. I feared that his obvious joy at seeing me would vanish very quickly once I told him what I had made of his kind advice, and I did not really want to see his smile replaced by a look of disapproval or even pity for my naïve assumption that I would really be allowed to stay in Mirkwood... I had to gain time to find the courage to tell him.  
  
"Bringing you the brandy you requested", I lightly replied, pulling out the bottle from under his cloak with a flourish.  
  
Tanglinna stared at the bottle in amazement, laughing again after a moment or two. "Shall we?" he asked, gesturing to the small bench tucked in one corner, exactly opposite the mural depicting our brandy feast. Oddly enough, this picture looked less caricaturesque than the rest of Mordil's lovely art.  
  
I accepted the seat, but refused the brandy. "I should not drink anything right now... I have to get out of here again, at least for some time, and I will not be able to do that if I am drunk."  
  
My half-hearted try to mention what exactly had brought me here by employing the words 'at least for some time' went unnoticed by Tanglinna; he only grinned and gazed at the doorway. "Ecthelhador - the guard who let you in - would be a bit suspicious if you appeared inebriated when you left", he agreed. "Ever since he let those dwarves escape he has been a bit overzealous. But if you do not want to partake of this," – a nod indicated the brandy - "then I will wait until you are safely gone." He smiled at me again, and it was reassuring to know that he felt so pleased about my visit; I did have a friend in him. "How is your son?" he enquired now. "And Seven?"  
  
"They are fine," I replied, aware that I did not quite sound and look as if I meant what I said, even though it was true. But conversing about such everyday matters and pretending that there was nothing more important to worry about would only make it harder to say what had to be said at some point; I had to get it over with. At once. "Perhaps..." I began very hesitantly. "Perhaps you will meet Alagant soon... or so I hope..."  
  
Valar! I sounded as ridiculous as I felt! How could this ever turn out well if even the simplest part started badly? Tanglinna frowned. "I would love to meet him...but... Um, where are you staying just now? When I am finally free of this cell I could come and see you." He smiled, still friendly and unsuspecting, still so very unaware of where I was heading.  
  
I should finally have explained what I meant, but all I managed to come up with was a counter-question: "How long will you have to stay here?"  
  
Tanglinna chuckled slightly, leaning back against the stone wall, legs stretched out in front of him. "I do not know. I await the king's pleasure," he replied with a grin, looking entirely too much at ease for a poor prisoner who had not even been informed about the length of his sentence.  
  
They had not even told him how long they were going to keep him here, and yet, even though he was facing the wicked thief who was at least indirectly responsible for this, he spoke about it so blithely... Perhaps it was guilt at having brought this about by my cowardice of running away instead of staying to stand trial that finally made me bold enough to speak openly. "I am sorry to hear that. Maybe your time here will not be quite as long if they learn that the prisoner you... lost has arrived to turn himself in?"  
  
There – it was said, the first step was taken. . . and rewarded with nothing but laughter when Tanglinna turned to look at me. "Ah," he commented eloquently. "So I merely have to give you over to them after everything I suffered to let you go? Very funny, Linlote."  
  
He thought this was a joke, nothing but a silly joke, making light of his sacrifice, his willingness to go through this for me.... How could he believe such a thing? Very well... Perhaps he had reason to believe it. After what had happened in the goblin lair, he could not think too highly of my sense of humour.  
  
Hoping that he would believe me that I was not merely jesting, I begged: ""Please do not laugh, Mordil, I... I mean this."  
  
Apparently, my assurance was not overly convincing; Tanglinna continued to laugh. "Of course you do."  
  
Still grinning, he turned to look at me, and he finally seemed to realize that I had meant what I had said; his amused expression turned into a frown, and he sat up. "What are you talking about, Alagaith?"  
  
I clearly had his attention now, but I remained silent for a moment, trying to gather my thoughts. Some insidious little voice in my head whispered at me that I could still turn back now; I could pretend that this had only been a very elaborate performance to scare my friend a little, a game, a joke, nothing... But that was not what I wanted. So, holding Tanglinna's gaze, I explained: "That night, after we had left those charming goblins... You said a lot of things, especially that I should try to change my life, that it was not all hopeless..." He could probably tell by now that I was utterly serious, serious enough to be very afraid, and it did not lessen my fear that I could bring myself to ask the question that was at the heart of it now, softly and not without hesitation, but still: "Do you think that, if I told them that I am willing to stand trial and accept whatever punishment they decide upon, they would let me stay... afterwards? And Alagant?"  
  
Poor Mordil looked positively stunned; having gaped at me for a moment, he asked, still bewildered: "But...what if they want to cut off your hand? I mean...that..." He fell silent, looking concerned, and I could not help wondering whether he had seen this done to other criminals and knew well, too well, what I was in for, or whether just a vague idea of the terrible punishment scared him. "You really want to live here in Greenwood...I mean, Mirkwood", he finally continued with a deep frown, still looking worried for me; yet, there was something else in his eyes, some measure of guarded joy, as if the thought that I was going to stay pleased him. "You...you truly want to do this?"  
  
I nodded firmly. "I do. I have thought about this for a long time, and... even if they cut off my hand" – I contemplated said hand for a moment, secretly thinking that it would be a waste to remove a hand that could have served Mirkwood well wielding a sword – "I will hopefully be of some use." Grinning at Tanglinna, both to reassure him and to keep my own doubts at bay, I added: "I can also use a scimitar with my left hand, you know?"  
  
Tanglinna tried to smile and failed. Silence fell, a painful silence heavy with fear unspoken on both sides; then, however, a look of resolve came over Mordil's features. "I will not LET them cut off your hand!" he declared, sounding as self-assured as the peacock I had named him, but also as if he meant every word. "I will tell Thranduil that...that he has to let you stay, and that he has to let you keep your hand since you saved my life in Gurshak's lair...I did tell him the truth, though no one really seemed to believe me at the time." His face reddened a bit as if 'the time' was not exactly pleasant to remember, but his determination did not waver: "He will have to let you stay." He nodded his head, whether to bolster his own courage or to soothe me, I did not know.  
  
In any case, I was moved by his words and his kindness, his unquestioning readiness to do so much for me although what he had done for me already had brought him to the dungeon. Precisely for that reason, I shook my head now. "You will not get yourself into any further trouble because of me - this" – I indicated the bleak cell – "is bad enough, so let them do what they believe to have to do. I shall treat this as sort of unconditional surrender... I... will accept their terms."  
  
This had not been an easy thing to say, and it would be even harder to force myself into humility and submission once it would be necessary, but I would do so; even if it should turn out that there was little else to gain by the ordeal, this friendship was well worth trying almost everything to be allowed to stay.  
  
"No," Tanglinna said. "I will not let them take your hand. For all that I am sitting here," – he gestured vaguely with his hand – "my life must be worth something to them. I shall ask that your hand be saved - your hand for my life. Fair trade, I would say." His grin was jaunty enough, but there was just a hint of doubt in his face; he knew he could not promise anything, but I did not demand that.  
  
"That would be going a bit too far, Tanglinna!" I protested, touched anyway that he was ready to go so far. "But... Thank you."  
  
"It is not too far at all," Mordil replied rather cockily. "Too far would be letting them cut off my hand instead!" He chuckled. "I doubt they would do it, but I think they are grooming either Heledir or Tavor to take over my job, so maybe they would." His somewhat ironic grin let me assume that he was not quite serious.  
  
"I do hope they would not!" I answered. "Besides, I would not allow you to offer that." Glad that we talked about this more lightly than it might have been appropriate, I winked at him.  
  
Tanglinna smiled. "Then you will have to hope that if I ....Hm..." He appeared lost in thought for a moment before he continued: "If it comes to that, I will ..." – he cleared his throat – "beg for your hand on my knees. Thranduil might be shocked to see me so humbled before him that he might comply." He grinned again, but I could imagine well enough that he was not entirely comfortable with the thought.  
  
I raised an eyebrow. "No, thanks, Mordil - that would probably kill you." I smiled a bit, willing to continue the merry banter, but suddenly feeling quite unable to do so; fear was catching on quickly. "And perhaps, it will not hurt that much, after all - the fear before is always the worst thing, and then, there is one good thing about it - it will ruin that accursed brand!" That would, indeed, be the only advantage of losing my hand, for the lack of a hand could easily be explained as due to an accident or a wound received in battle, while there was no way to explain away a cam- tehta and its grim meaning.  
  
Tanglinna raised one brow, mirroring the expression my face had worn just moments before. "It would not kill me. I am a bit harder to get rid of than that," he assured me with a grin. "You are set on this? You truly want to come here?"  
  
Yes, I did; I was certain. "It seems a good place to live.... And perhaps... it could become home, or something like that." Smiling a bit wistfully, I added for honesty's sake: "But I am aware that it will not be easy."  
  
Tanglinna slowly nodded. "Very well then. When did you want to talk to the king? He occasionally visits me, but if you like I will call Ecthelhador now." He was watching me intently, and I understood that this – not the question he had asked before – was his real way of learning how resolved I was.  
  
I nodded with the impassive face he probably knew very well by now, the face I would put on to brave the inevitable with as much dignity as I could scrape together. "Do so, please." This was not exactly what I had planned, but very well – why not right now? It would create a fairly bad impression that I had lied to Ecthelhador in order to visit Tanglinna, but then, King Thranduil's opinion of me could hardly get any worse after the little discussion we had had on the edge of the battlefield.  
  
Tanglinna slowly rose and moved to the door, hesitating and glancing at me once more as if he wished to make sure that I was really set to this course.  
  
I smiled at this. True enough, this might have been the last moment to change my decision, but it could not be changed any more. "You seem to be more afraid than I am, Mordil - just get over with it."  
  
Tanglinna grinned slightly at my bravado, but then, he resolutely turned to grasp the cell's barred window and called for Ecthelhador.  
  
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ------  
  
The iron bars were cold beneath my hands, as icy as the fear that beat so within my chest like a dwarf's hammer. My knuckles were white upon the black bars, and I had to force myself to relax my grip.  
  
He really wanted to do this....He really wanted to start a new life here in Mirkwood. What was he thinking?!  
  
Yet, even as part of me quailed at the thought of what they might do to him – this repeated offender and escapee –part of me admired his bravery for wanting to make a new start for he and his son, and there was a part of me – the most selfish part – that capered like a joyous child. He wanted to live here! And I wanted him to come here.  
  
I wanted him to come here with his son, to live in a nice house suited to them and their needs. I remembered worrying that they would be cold this winter or hungry , and though I knew he had told me that Gurshak's brooch had been a great boon to them, I still worried. What would they do when that money or the goods they had obtained from its sale ran out?  
  
But, he was here and wanted something better for himself and his family than the uncertainty that his life had been for so long. He was incredibly brave...or foolish...perhaps a little of both and I admired him greatly for it.  
  
"Ecthelhador!" I called, my voice sounding odd as it echoed off the corridor's chill, unrelieved stone walls.  
  
The captain of the guards approached my cell rather more slowly than was normal, a look of guarded suspicion on his face. He had not yet recovered from the embarrassment of the dwarves' escape, and had been overly suspicious and overly dutiful ever since. He came to stand before the door, trying to peer past me, wanting to get a look at my mysterious visitor, no doubt. He knew as well as I did that this was going against one of the stipulations of my imprisonment – no visitors was certainly one of them - and he probably was feeling a bit remorseful and regretting that he had let Alagaith talk his way in here.  
  
"I need to see the king," I said meeting his gaze quite firmly, allowing him no room for discussion. "Now."  
  
He frowned at this, thinking that I was not in a position to order him or anyone else at the present moment about so callously; probably thought I was being demanding and unreasonable. I was the prisoner, after all, and he was the guard. I was here because I had displeased the king and therefore I had no right to make demands on anyone.  
  
He tried once more to see around me, but I moved deliberately before the cell window, completely blocking his view, one of my brows shooting upward.  
  
"The king is not available at your beck and call, Tanglinna," he informed me with a sneer, giving up the attempt to see Alagaith and moving away from the cell, clearly dismissing me. "He is dining with his family and is not to be disturbed." He turned then, a grin on his face, cocky in his assurance that he was in the right...and he was....  
  
But never let it be said that I backed down because things were against me!  
  
"Disturb him anyway!" I called, pressed against the bars, glaring at him. "This is very important!"  
  
He hesitated, and I knew he wondered once more just who my visitor was for he turned again, scowling this time as he weighed his choices carefully. Then, grumbling a little, he headed back up the corridor and vanished beyond my sight.  
  
I turned to Alagaith, thinking that he looked very pale in the dim light.  
  
"This is your last chance to flee," I told him quietly.  
  
This was his last chance to escape this place before Ecthelhador returned...alone or not remained to be seen. I felt torn, which could only pale in comparison to what Alagaith must be feeling! I wanted him safely away from here where he could keep his freedom and his hand. Yet, I wanted him to stay, and perhaps Thranduil would be merciful. He could be when he so chose, and Alagaith's plea should touch his heart.  
  
Alagaith's integrity showed in his willingness to come here and submit himself to the king's justice. Thranduil would have to take that into account!  
  
"It is," he answered me, rising to his feet and moving to stand behind me, "but I will stay." He grinned then, an infectious grin that almost hid his fear from me. But the overwhelming uncertainty of this situation shone quite clearly in his one eye. I could only imagine what sort of terrified thoughts must be running like untamed stallions in his head – unrestrained and wild.  
  
I attempted to grin as well, to reassure him.  
  
"I thought you were fairly good at picking locks, Linlote," I quipped, realizing how obvious this attempt at levity sounded. "What is this? Did you forget your needle?"  
  
I lifted one brow jauntily, but I knew he could see my concern for him.  
  
"You know that the locks only open after quite some time if I pick them." He attempted another smile, nearly failing and my own fear nearly took the fore.  
  
"I just wasn't twisting my wrist correctly or it would have opened sooner," I murmured with a sigh, turning to the door and trying to see down the hallway, uncertainty and apprehension twisting inside me like twin snakes.  
  
Why did Thranduil have to be at dinner just now? Surely it was much too late for dinner! Or too early! It was very hard to keep track of the time down here. There were days when I was not sure if it was day or night outside in the real world. Thranduil would not be pleased that I had called him away from an intimate, oh-so-rare family dinner. Maybe I should have waited a while. Maybe I should -  
  
There was a flare of torch light and low voices...Someone was coming down the corridor even now. One voice sounded worried and annoyed, the other merely sounded ... annoyed...very annoyed. Ai, Valar!  
  
"I still do not understand what this is all about, Ecthelhador. I hope you are not calling me away from my family on a whim of Tanglinna's."  
  
Oh, yes. Thranduil was coming this way, and he was not pleased at all by the interruption of his peaceful evening with his wife and children.  
  
Ecthelhador stammered something I could not make out, and I turned to look at Alagaith, smiling in reassurance. By the Valar, I hoped he knew what he was getting himself into by coming here!  
  
"All will be well," I murmured, trying to convince myself of this also. Not so easily done.  
  
His return smile was as brief as a flash of lightning, barely seen before it was gone as his worry took over full force. The moment to gracefully and unobtrusively exit had passed. There was no other course now; he had no choice but to go through with this. He looked even paler than before and I wondered briefly what he was thinking. Perhaps it was about losing his hand...or thinking about whatever Laebrui and Nimdir had said about the spiders. Then I saw his eye dart to the brand that marred his wrist, and wondered if he were perhaps remembering that dread day when they had come at him with a hot iron and seared his unwilling flesh for all time.  
  
I winced, not wanting to think of what that must have been like for him.... How much worse would loosing his hand altogether be?  
  
Swallowing back my own rising fear and gazing at the door once more, I was startled to see Ecthelhador's face there in the window, glaring at me. Things had obviously not gone well for him either. I glared back not caring. But then Thranduil was there, looking very put out indeed. One golden brow rose.  
  
"You need something?" he asked in a very clipped voice as if he did not want to waste his breath on speaking to me.  
  
I cleared my throat, mustering my courage. If it were myself at stake in this grand game and not someone else, I would not have hesitated to return this with some quip or cutting remark. But it was not me, whose freedom was at sake, so I controlled my natural inclinations –hard as this was – and tried to form words of deepest sincerity. Why, oh why, had I not prepared a speech before now - something eloquent with just the right amount of passion tempered with logic; something that would make Thranduil look more favourably on poor Alagaith?  
  
I cleared my throat again for good measure.  
  
"Aranhir...there is someone I would like you to meet."  
  
Not the best of beginnings, and I would never be lauded for my clever words, but it was a start.  
  
Thranduil sighed, all his exasperation and annoyance made clear in that one exhalation.  
  
"I can look at your pictures later, Tanglinna," he said. "I was having dinner when Ecthelhador said you had to see me immediately."  
  
Had I said 'immediately'?  
  
"I hope," he continued, narrowing his eyes, "you did not think I would come running down here to look at your paintings."  
  
I shook my head for that was not my intention. He must know I would not interrupt him for something that trivial.  
  
"No, this is a real person. Please, hir-nin." I gazed hopefully at him, wanting him to see that this was important.  
  
His brow rose sceptically as he turned to glance ever so briefly at Ecthelhador, who stepped away from him, no doubt wondering what the king would make of his allowing a 'real person' into any cell without permission.  
  
"A 'real person', Tanglinna?" Thranduil queried. "Your better self, I presume." I could see he was indeed thinking about the rule that stated I was to have no visitors – he, of course, did not count and came whenever he felt like tormenting me. But I dare not say that!  
  
"Um, yes," I answered most eloquently. "I seem to recall....something like that." Clearly that ridiculous rule was on my mind as well! I shook my head. I would not be sidetracked! "But...well...you see...."  
  
I hazarded a glance at Alagaith – my 'better self'. "I do have a visitor, one that you should really meet...properly. Ecthelhador...it was not his fault that he let him in."  
  
My eyes moved to the guard at Thranduil's shoulder and a slight smirk quirked my lips. Hopefully, Thranduil would see that it was Ecthelhador's fault!  
  
"He probably forgot that little stipulation...there were so many of them." It was best to not pursue that course, so.... "So...I suppose you should just...come in here and meet my visitor...properly."  
  
I bowed slightly, gesturing gracefully with my arm as though I were welcoming him into my home and not a prison cell, wondering if he would humor me or gag me and chain me to the wall until he had finished his meal – probably making it a seven course feast, with wine at the end of it to be sipped at a leisurely pace while I thought about my rudeness in summoning him here.  
  
The king frowned, not looking any more pleased than he had, but he nodded at Ecthelhador to open the door. Then his gaze, swift as a hawk on the hunt, returned to me, letting me see his displeasure - and telling me quite plainly by the thunderous look on his face alone - that if this were some ridiculous ruse on my part, I would be very sorry indeed!  
  
I moved swiftly aside as he swept into the cell. I glanced hurriedly at Alagaith, who bowed in a most elegant and formal fashion in a way that I had not seen before. He must have been terrified, but he was hiding it well. I smiled at him, wanting to know that I was very proud of the way he was handling himself, and to know I would stand beside him regardless of what lay ahead.  
  
"Uh...Aranhir," I said, glancing from one to the other and back again. "This is...Alagaith Alagaerion...a good friend of mine." I tried to smile, trying to appear calm, as if this was normal and that there was nothing unusual at all about this situation. I was merely introducing a friend to the king...that was all, nothing odd or strange about this. Nothing whatsoever.... "You may remember him...from...before...." I finished rather lamely, cursing myself for not expressing what I was feeling in the manner that I should.  
  
I am certain he did remember Alagaith! Only too well, I feared! One does not forget an insult so easily or swiftly. Certainly not Oropherion.  
  
Thranduil's icy eyes turned upon me, then back to Alagaith, then back to me once more.  
  
"A very good friend of yours!" he hissed in a low voice filled with leonine menace. "And someone I should remember, you believe?"  
  
Obviously, he did recall, for a storm brewed in those blue Sindarin eyes, turning them nearly slate-coloured. No, this was not going to go easily, smoothly, or swiftly. I straightened then, lifting my chin slightly in the only act of defiance that I dared, wishing I could match Thranduil's height just this once. But if this storm were going to break, then it would break on me, not on Alagaith.  
  
"Yes, Aranhir. Do you recall that story I told you...when I returned after the battle at Erebor? About the... hole in the ground?"  
  
Please let him remember the part about Gurshak that had so delighted him before! Let him humiliate me all he liked! I could curse him for this later! I tried to look guileless and innocent, and hoping that he would not push me into saying something I did not want to say, something we would all regret.  
  
"I do recall this story, Tanglinna – my memory is not so short that I would forget that easily why you will be here for yet a while."  
  
Somehow, I knew my current open-ended sentence was now probably doubled in length with those carefully emphasized words, but so be it!  
  
"I did not think you had forgotten, Aranhir."  
  
The moment had arrived, there was no more delaying or wondering what should be said or done. I merely needed the right words to say and....  
  
I hazarded a glance at Alagaith, hoping that he had not changed his mind during this disheartening conversation. He was so very pale that my heart ached for him. He probably rued the day he had ever laid eyes on me! I turned swiftly to Thranduil once more.  
  
"Alagaith has come to ask a boon of you, hir-nin. And I am asking you to please listen to what he has to say before you...before you answer." I was making a plea for mercy right from the start! It was, perhaps, our only hope.  
  
Oropher's son still looked highly displeased. I knew he was very angry with both Alagaith for his boldness, which Thranduil no doubt saw as the utmost insolence, and at me for daring to support this thief still.  
  
"Very well," he said. "Make your plea then, thief." His cold eyes lit once more on Alagaith....  
  
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ------  
  
I should have been glad that the king did allow me to speak instead of having me thrown in the deepest dungeons these caves had to offer at once, but all I felt was fear, springing from the utter certainty that this could not end well. I had not only committed a crime; I had also insulted and ridiculed the one person who could grant me mercy. What had I been thinking when I had assumed that this could work? Now that the moment had come, I realized just how bold I was to believe that I had any hope.  
  
Nevertheless, I spoke swiftly, without hesitation. "As far as the charge against me is concerned, I do not ask for clemency, my king, and I am deeply sorry that my flight has caused all this commotion." I did feel sorry – for Mordil, who had paid so very dearly for the one crime of being a good and compassionate elf. Having glanced at him for the briefest moment, I focused my attention on the king again and continued: "I did, however, not intend to escape punishment; there were urgent matters I had to attend to, and Tanglinna was kind enough to grant me the time to see to those things. I do apologize for any inconvenience this... unusual solution may have caused you or your subjects, my king, and ask but one mercy of you - that you will allow me, and my son, to stay in your realm once I have atoned for my crimes."  
  
Having finished my improvised speech, I knelt and inclined my head to await the king's judgement, hoping that this version of what had happened would at least be sufficient to shorten Tanglinna's imprisonment, but not sure of that at all. I regretted that I had not asked him what exactly he had told the king to explain my absence; we should have talked more about this and acted less rashly, to make our tales match and decide upon a promising strategy...  
  
I was aware that Tanglinna was staring at me, but I dared not raise my eye to meet his gaze and read in it if my story was reconcilable with his; it was too late for this, and for countless other things...  
  
The king's cold, impassive voice cut the silence like a well-sharpened blade. "What 'urgent matters' were they that you convinced my warrior to let you go when he had orders to bring you here? They must have been urgent indeed." Here, he paused, but merely to glance at his Master Archer coolly, not to give me enough time to come up with a nice, convincing explanation. "Well? If I am to believe what you are saying, then answer my question."  
  
I gazed up at the king, hoping that the expression of serenity that I had willed my features into did not seem too forced and unconvincing. It was not only fear that I had to keep out of my face. A nervous, yet grimly amused grin threatened to twist my lips; it was ironic – too ironic! – that I had to give the king almost exactly the explanation that he had so joked about earlier. Hungry elflings indeed...  
  
"I have a son of twelve years, my king, and I had left him in the care of an orc in order to be able to... search for useful things on the battlefield, promising said orc a scimitar or sword in return." I would have to apologize to Seven for describing what had happened like this, but I felt quite unable to explain to Thranduil that this orc happened to be a very good friend of mine and that searching for a scimitar for him had been quite a natural favour, not anything comparable to payment or a bribe. "You will understand that I wished to make sure that my son was well and properly taken care of before I came here."  
  
At this point, Tanglinna tried to intervene, but he did not get very far. "He...the..." he began and was instantly silenced again by an imperious glare before the king turned to look back at me.  
  
"This makes no sense, thief. If you were looking for a scimitar or a sword, then why did Tanglinna find you taking Lalven's cloak? The clasp of which was already in your pocket."  
  
Fortunately, I realized just in time that the way this question had been phrased had been a deliberate provocation. Forcing myself not to tell the king that he had apparently failed to listen properly, I patiently replied: "The fact that I was looking for a sword or scimitar, among other things, does not mean that I was resolved to let a good opportunity slip, my king - and I did need a cloak at that time. And the clasp seemed precious enough to me - I might have been able to sell it." This was the truth; yet I wondered how kindly my words would be received. If it had already been rather difficult for Mordil to grasp why I had deemed it necessary to appropriate Gurshak's clothing, the high and mighty king of Mirkwood would not have much understanding for what had been behind my theft on the battlefield; what I had said would only cement his view that I was a worthless criminal, a skulking cutpurse indeed...  
  
One of Thranduil's brows was raised as if in speculation. "Yet now you come to me and want to 'atone' for your crimes?" he enquired, his voice still chill as a winter night. "And then you want me to allow you to stay here? May I ask why you have had this sudden change of heart? I did not realize that it was so easy to just stop being a thief."  
  
Even though these words were spoken in callous mockery, meant to test my resolve in the best case, but more likely making light of it, the king was very right. No, it was not easy to just stop being a thief, but for quite different reasons than those self-righteous, wise Wood-elves apparently assumed.  
  
"Once a thief always a thief" Ecthelhador, whom I had almost forgotten by then, muttered. This remark earned him a glare and a clenched fist from Tanglinna, and marginal as this exchange may seem, it was what kept me from giving up at that point.  
  
The captain of the guards had expressed the opinion that most people were going to have of me quite nicely. It was the obvious thing to say, and it would have been easy for Mordil to ignore it; yet, he had not done so, and his wordless defence filled me with unexpectedly deep gratitude. There was someone who believed in me and my sincerity unconditionally, and perhaps, he had been right when he had said that one person's belief could be enough. I would not let him down by giving up now.  
  
So, silently sending a prayer for strength and composure to the merciful Valar, I answered: "It is not, my king - and I will frankly tell you that earlier attempts to change my life have not been successful, as I met with too much distrust to even be allowed to stay in the places whose inhabitants I approached in the hope to be granted that mercy. But Tanglinna was kind enough to talk to me for a long time while we were travelling here from Erebor, and what he said gave me some faint hope."  
  
Faint hope it was indeed, growing even fainter now under the king's piercing eyes. "What if I said that your hand would indeed still be forfeit for your crime?" he asked, shooting a warning glare at his Master Archer, who had made a small noise and opened his mouth to speak at this pronouncement, but finally was wise enough to keep silent. "Answer me."  
  
I had believed that I had already been afraid earlier, but now that the dreadful punishment – more severe than any imprisonment, beating or humiliation could be, and also more lasting in its consequences – seemed about to be dealt to me, I decided that what I had felt before qualified as moderate unease at most. What had I gotten myself into? But I known that it this would happen, and I should have known that it would feel just like this.  
  
"I will accept this punishment, my king." I said, glad that my voice was calm and unwavering, even if I was probably paler than ever now. Looking up at the king, I added: "And if you wished to tell me now that a one-handed elf would be of little use to your realm, I would have to gainsay you; I can wield a sword with either hand, and I am sure that I will be able to do whatever work you ask me to do with one hand as well; at least, I shall try."  
  
Having stated this, I lowered my gaze again, certain that he would order someone to cut my hand of right on the spot or take a sword himself to deal terrible justice; so be it, if it had to be! I only hoped that he would not ask Mordil to do it, for that was the one thing that would have been harder to bear than anything else, and I implored Manwe and Varda and all other Valar to keep that thought far from the wood-elf king's mind.  
  
But... nothing happened, or at least not what I had expected. Thranduil studied me for a moment before his eyes came to rest upon Tanglinna, who looked decidedly worried. "Then this ridiculous tale that Tanglinna told me about you defending him by defeating this goblin - Gurshul or whatever his name was - in a fight was true?" he enquired.  
  
Daunting as everything was at that point, I had to force myself not to burst into laughter. I did not know how far the king's knowledge of Eastern Orcish went; if he knew one or two words of it, at least, he may have chosen to turn 'Gurshak' into 'Gurshul' – 'moonlike heart' – on purpose. "It is true that I defeated that goblin, my king."  
  
"Prove it." he ordered.  
  
Prove it? How should I prove that I had defeated Gurshak? Tanglinna, who had been the only witness to the scene, had already spoken for me, and the king could hardly expect me to bring 'Gurshul' here to testify to my words... or could he?  
  
I must have looked somewhat puzzled for a moment or two, and the king decided not to wait for a reply; instead, he turned to tell Ecthelhador to fetch two swords, two, not one... So he wanted me to prove my skill with a blade? That was a good thing, a very good thing... It meant that there was still some hope! Maybe, if I impressed him, he would decide to let me stay, and if I was very lucky, he would be impressed enough to concede that hacking off my sword hand would not be in his best interest... All could still be well, they might let me keep my hand, or decide merely to hew off my left hand, the one that I fought less well with... There was hope, a faint bit of hope, but still hope...  
  
I should have taken the frown and the look of distress that had come to Tanglinna's face more seriously; had I thought about the matter more thoroughly, I would have realized that the king's order did not have to point to a chance readily offered, but could also be the prelude to an act of utmost perfidy.  
  
What was he doing?!  
  
I stared at Thranduil, wondering what he was hoping to accomplish by this. On the surface it seemed obvious – he was testing Alagaith's skill with a blade; yet like the still surface of a pond, one never knew what lay beneath, hidden in the shadowy depths. There was more to this than met the eye, and that worried me.  
  
Alagaith looked amazingly relieved, and that was good...but...he did not realize the gravity of this situation, did he? I think he knew it to some extent, yes, but his skill with a sword was not all that Thranduil was looking for. Did he realize that? I doubted it; he did not know the king as well as I did.  
  
Ecthelhador returned bearing two light swords with long, elegant silver blades and curved, spiralling ornate handles. He looked as uncertain about this situation as I was. He too, knew that our king's simple order masked something greater.  
  
Thranduil gazed at those blades – delicate things not made for war but for duelling – indeed they were used to display prowess, grace, fancy footwork. It was more of a dance than anything else! The king's blue gaze flicked to Alagaith.  
  
"Rise," he ordered sharply. "You cannot fight on your knees. Choose a sword."  
  
Ecthelhador looked very distressed by this, no doubt wondering how wise it was to allow this 'thief' to have a weapon; but he held out the swords, which looked identical to me. They were fancy trinkets given to Thranduil for something or other, no doubt.  
  
My friend did as bidden, gazing carefully at the proffered weapons, taking them in hand and checking the weight and balance, making a few practice swipes in our very confined space. A smile crossed my face, and pride welled within me, though I could take no credit for any of his skill. Alagaith's performance now was very different from what it had been in the cell in the lair! Now he knew what he was doing, and showed it! Gladly!  
  
I noticed that Thranduil watched him appraisingly, and not with mere cold indifference. I thanked the Valar for this chance – though I still harboured doubts as to what the intent truly was.  
  
At last, Alagaith had chosen a sword to use and gazed expectantly at Thranduil, awaiting further instructions.  
  
"You say you are a good swordsman?" the king asked.  
  
Alagaith stared at him for a moment.  
  
"I have not said that, my king," he said finally, and in truth he had not, I had. "I know how to use a sword – that is all."  
  
'That is all'...That was hardly all! But Thranduil was speaking again.  
  
"Against a goblin, yes. But what about an elf?"  
  
One brow arched in challenge as Thranduil took the second sword, testing this weapon himself, before looking back at Alagaith. Surely, Thranduil would not fight him!  
  
"I cannot answer so general a question, my king. When I crossed blades with elves in the past, they were most often Noldor, schooled in the same way of sword fighting that I was trained in my youth."  
  
The king's brow quirked again, and his lips twitched slightly.  
  
"But since you say you wish to live here – with my Wood-elves, perhaps I should see how well you will fare with them. If you can best one of my warriors...well.... We shall see if you can."  
  
Thranduil smirked then and turned to me. He pressed the sword into my hand; it felt entirely too light to be a real sword. I made an odd noise of protest – I was no swordsman, real sword or no! I was an archer! – but the king was speaking again, giving me no time to voice my protest.  
  
"Tanglinna is not my best warrior with a sword, but if I see that you are holding back – or he is – then I will doubt the sincerity of your intentions. You merely need to disarm him...."  
  
At least he did not need to wound me!  
  
"...and again...I do not want to see either of you holding back or your...boon is denied, though your hand is mine by law."  
  
I was stunned by this most unexpected turn of events! The few times I had employed my sword had been in battle with a dire enemy. Celair-Dagnir had been made for hacking and bashing in war, not prancing about and parrying like some dandyish fop! Even the lessons I had taken with Riwmegor had been with real swords, not these overgrown needles!  
  
But Alagaith merely inclined his head. Obviously this sort of 'fighting' was fine with him.... Would that I felt so confident!  
  
"I have but one request, my king," Alagaith said quietly. "This cell is very narrow. It would hardly be a proper fight in here, and," he turned to smile at me, "I would hate to damage the most amazing artwork on that wall by chance."  
  
'Damage the artwork'? 'Damage the artwork'?! What about damaging me?! I knew that happened in these mock duels, not on purpose, but by chance. And worse still – what if I damaged him!! It would be a strange turn if I did, but it was possible! I did not even want to think of that!  
  
Thranduil's eyes moved to the painted wall, probably to the two 'happy elves' with the brandy bottles seated beneath a tree. He smirked at what he saw there, the twisted lips making his face not very pleasant to look upon. He turned back to Alagaith.  
  
"Of course. We shall move to a larger, more accommodating area. Perhaps a few witnesses are in order. Follow me."  
  
.  
  
"Thus, two sword-bearing elves followed a smirking, golden-haired demon who could hardly be described as a 'good and wise king' now, out of the cell.  
  
"I am sorry," Tanglinna quietly said, glancing at Alagaith. "I did not know he would do this."  
  
Alagaith tried to smile reassuringly and almost succeeded. "I know, Mordil - do not worry. We shall give him a fight he will never forget." –  
  
"I doubt I will ever forget it!" Tanglinna replied, quite unable to enjoy the fact that he was finally free of the cell, at least.  
  
They walked the rest of the way in silence, trailed by a grinning Ecthelhador.  
  
The... Beginning? 


End file.
